MY  LADY 
VALENTINE 


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Copyright,  1916,  by 
A.  M.  DAVIS 


All  rights  reserved 


TO    MY 

HUSBAND 


2137933 


MY    LADY    VALENTINE 


CHAPTER  I 

CALEB  WHITMAN  was  in  a  bad  humor.  The 
task  of  editing  the  Valentine  Special  with 
which  Better  Every  Week  was  planning  to  cele- 
brate its  tenth  anniversary,  was  far  from  his  taste. 
The  theme  of  this  number  was  to  be  —  as  one 
might  surmise  —  Love;  and  Whitman  did  not  be- 
lieve in  love,  at  least  not  in  the  violent  emotion 
which  the  story-writers  were  so  fond  of  describing. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  said  to  his  friend  Radding, 
who  had  dropped  in  upon  him  one  hot  August  after- 
noon, "  that  any  man  in  his  senses  ever  carried  on 
over  a  girl  as  these  story-book  fellows  do?  Do 
you  think  any  man  ever  felt  like  saying  the  sickly 
things  the  poets  write?  I  can't  see  why  writers 
want  to  turn  out  such  stuff.  I  can't  see  why  any- 
body reads  the  silly  yarns  when  we  print  them.  .  .  . 
How  do  you  account  for  it,  Rad?  You're  a  phi- 
losopher." 

Radding  smiled  and  yawned.  He  moved  out  of 
the  direct  draft  of  the  electric  fan  which  blew  his 
thin  brown  hair  about  his  high,  intelligent  fore- 
head: 

7 


8  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  There  are  three  classes  of  people,"  he  said. 
"  Those  who  have  been  in  love ;  those  who  are  in 
love;  and  those  who  hope  to  be  in  love." 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  "  asked  Whit- 
man. 

"  The  first  class  read  love  stories  to  recall  past 
happiness,  the  second  to  intensify  present  happiness, 
the  third  to  anticipate  future  happiness." 

"  I  must  be  in  a  class  all  by  myself,  then,"  stormed 
Whitman,  "  for  the  more  time  I  put  in  on  this  bunch 
of  stuff  the  more  determined  I  am  never  to  be  a 
lover.  Why,  Rad,  it  takes  a  man's  reason  — " 

"  Yes,"  Radding  admitted,  "  it  does." 

"  It  warps  his  judgment." 

"It  certainly  does  that." 

"  It  causes  as  much  misery  as  joy,  apparently." 

"  The  evidence  is  all  with  you." 

"  Then  what  on  earth  does  it  give  in  return  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  Radding,  smiling  at  the  younger 
man's  vehemence,  "  is  what  you  will  some  day  find 
out." 

"  Not  I,"  boasted  Whitman. 

"  You  mean  that  you  have  set  yourself  against 
marriage?"  his  friend  inquired. 

"  Not  at  all.  I've  merely  set  myself  against  the 
emotional  state  of  the  story-book  lover.  When  I 
pick  out  a  wife,  I'll  do  it  with  my  head.  I'll  look 
first  of  all  for  a  rational  human  being,  secondly  for 
a  healthy  human  being." 

"  You  might  not  like  her,  you  know,"  Radding  re- 
minded him. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  9 

Whitman  looked  up  from  the  manuscript  he  was 
glancing  over  to  say,  "  I  don't  want  to  like  her  in 
the  crazy  way  these  lovers  do.  All  I  want  to  feel 
is  a  calm  regard.  I  don't  want  to  have  my  heart 
thump  every  time  she  comes  around  the  corner.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  prey  to  jealousy  every  time  an- 
other man  looks  at  her.  Above  all,  I  don't  want  to 
sink  into  second  childhood  and  call  her  silly 
names." 

"  What  names,  for  instance  ?  "  Radding  asked. 

"'Darling.'  'Birdie.'  'Honey-Love,'"  quoted 
Whitman  scornfully  from  the  ardent  page  before 
him. 

"  Oh,  that  kind  of  names ! "  said  Radding,  with 
a  nod  of  understanding.  "  What  shall  you  call 
her?" 

"'Mary,'  if  that's  her  name;  'Susan'  if  that's 
what  she  was  christened;  and  I  shall  expect  her  to 
call  me  '  Caleb.'  " 

"  You  even  let  me  turn  it  into  '  Caley,'  "  Radding 
reminded  him. 

"  You're  different,"  said  Whitman,  honest  affec- 
tion shining  in  his  eyes.  "  You're  all  the  family  I 
have,  Rad;  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world. 
Don't  let  me  get  started  on  you,  or  I'll  turn  as  sen- 
timental as  the  novelists.  ...  By  the  way,  I'm 
going  to  try  my  own  hand  at  a  novel  this  vaca- 
tion." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  them  ?  " 

"  I  believe  in  this  one.  It's  to  be  the  story  of  a 
sane  courtship,  like  the  one  I've  been  outlining  to 


io  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

you.  I've  been  planning  it  ever  since  I  was  as- 
signed to  this  job  of  getting  out  the  Valentine 
Special.  I  believe  that  there  are  thousands  of  peo- 
ple who  will  read  my  kind  of  love  story  with  re- 
lief." 

"  You  can  but  try  it,"  Radding  granted.  And 
then  he  asked,  "  Where  are  you  going  on  your 
vacation,  anyway?" 

"  Up  in  the  hills,  to  a  camp  I  know  of  —  a  kind 
of  writers'  colony." 

"When  do  you  start?" 

Whitman  did  not  answer.  He  was  lost  in  the 
contents  of  the  last  of  the  envelopes  which  he  had 
taken  up  from  the  great  pile  before  him. 

"  Got  hold  of  something  good  ?  "  asked  Radding, 
noticing  his  preoccupation. 

"  I've  come  upon  something  odd,"  Whitman  ex- 
plained, raising  his  eyes  for  only  a  fleeting  mo- 
ment from  the  letter  he  was  reading. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  poem,  a  letter  —  and  a  signature." 

"  Want  to  share  them  with  me,  or  am  I  in  your 
way?" 

"  Not  in  my  way.  I'm  going  to  knock  off  in  a 
minute  and  go  home  with  you." 

"  Is  it  a  good  poem  ?  " 

"  Not  very ;  but  it  may  do  with  editing.  We  are 
going  to  have  two  pages  of  light  verse.  The  idea 
of  this  is  at  least  new.  Something  kind  of  win- 
some about  it.  But  it's  the  personality  behind  it 
that  piques  my  curiosity.  Take  a  look  at  it,  Rad." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  11 

And  Whitman  held  out  a  thin  sheet  of  cross  barred 
country  paper  on  which  some  one  had  written  in 
a  firm  hand: 

"  TO  MY  UNKNOWN  LOVER 

"  I  know  not  where  thou  art, 
Thy  name  I  do  not  know, 
And  yet  for  thee  my  heart  lives  on 
Like  violets  under  snow. 

For  some  day  thou  wilt  come, 

Dear  Lover,  all  unknown; 
And  find  thy  waiting,  faithful  love 

And  claim  her  for  thine  own. 

How  shalt  thou  know  me  thine? 

Remember,  dear,  by  this: 
My  lilies  all  will  ring  their  bells, 

My  foxgloves  waft  a  kiss. 

My  cedar  tree  will  offer  shade, 
My  vines  will  dance  with  glee, 

My  garden  gate  will  stand  ajar  — 
So  loneliness  may  flee. 

I  know  not  where  thou  art, 

Thy  name  I  do  not  know, 
And  yet  for  thee  my  heart  lives  on 

Like  violets  under  snow." 

"  Rather  forthputting,"  said  Radding,  handing 
the  paper  back. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Whitman.  "Now 
listen  to  the  letter  which  accompanies  it ; "  and  he 
read: 


12  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 
"  Dear  Editor  of  Better  Every  Week: 

"  Here  are  some  verses  that  grew  in  a  garden. 
Please  buy  them.  You  would,  I  feel  sure,  if  you 
knew  what  it  would  mean  to  me.  I  must  make 
money  " — 

"  I  suppose  they  all  say  that,"  ejaculated  Rad- 
ding. 

"  They  don't  say  it  in  this  way,"  said  Whitman, 
continuing  to  read: 

"  I  must  make  money  —  a  certain  sum  within 
a  specified  time." 

"  Been  playing  cards  or  following  the  ponies  ?  " 
Radding  joked. 

Whitman  didn't  smile.  "Don't,  Rad,"  he  said. 
"  The  writer  is  in  real  trouble.  Listen :  " 

"  It  isn't  easy  to  earn  anything  when  one  lives 
in  a  little  village  that  has  been  asleep  these  hun- 
dred years.  It  isn't  easy  to  sell  anything  in  a 
town  where  the  only  demand  is  for  peppermint 
candy,  gray  yarn  and  dry  groceries. 

"  Please  take  my  poem.  If  you  are  an  old 
man  —  I  imagine  you  with  gray  side-whiskers,  a 
round  red  face  that  wrinkles  into  smiles,  and  a 
thick  gold  watch  chain  stretched  across  a  white 
waistcoat " — 

At  this  point  Whitman  looked  up  with  a  smile, 
as  if  to  invite  Radding  to  share  his  amusement. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  13 

With  his  red  hair,  keen  gray  eyes,  straight  shoul- 
ders, the  young  editor  could  not  have  been  less  like 
the  writer's  vision. 
Again  he  went  on : 

"  say  to  yourself  '  a  little  encouragement  from  me 
may  make  a  difference  in  this  person's  whole 
life.' 

"If  you  are  young  —  but  oh,  dear,  how  should 
I  know  how  to  appeal  to  a  young  man.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  young  men.  They  all  left 
Deep  Harbor  long  ago.  The  last  one  that  was 
seen  here  was  in,  well,  1812  at  the  very  latest." 

Whitman  paused  for  dramatic  effect  before  read- 
ing impressively: 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"  HENRY  B.  LUFFKIN." 

"Well?"  said  Radding. 

"  Well,"  said  Whitman.  "  Of  course  no  man 
wrote  that  note  and  no  man  wrote  those  verses." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Radding.  "Every  village 
of  over  two  hundred  inhabitants  has  a  poet.  Deep 
Harbor  has  Henry.  I  can  see  him  plainly.  He's 
pale,  and  watery  blue  eyed,  with  tow  colored  hair, 
which  he  wears  long.  He  ties  his  cuffs  with  rib- 
bons. He  owes  a  soda  water  bill  at  the  village 
drug  store  and  hopes  that  you  will  pay  him  enough 
for  the  poem  to  square  it." 

"  Rad,"  said  Caleb,  "  you  don't  believe  that." 


14  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not!  Because  every  word  of  that  letter 
and  every  line  of  that  poem  was  written  by  a  girl. 
Look  here.  This  proves  it  —  it  isn't  dated." 

"  Henry  wouldn't  date  it,"  said  Radding.  "  He'd 
think  it  was  commercial." 

"  I  can  just  see  that  village,"  Whitman  continued, 
ignoring  Radding' s  chaffing.  "  A  lonely  little  place, 
at  the  end  of  the  earth,  with  a  deserted  harbor  where 
no  ships  ever  come;  sagging  old  wharves,  ruminat- 
ing old  fishermen,  and  somewhere  in  it  —  this  girl, 
panting  for  a  wider  world.  You  see,  I  know,  Rad, 
because  I  spent  my  boyhood  in  that  kind  of  place." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  poem  ?  " 
asked  Radding. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  it.  We  can  edit  it  a  bit,  and 
stick  it  in  somewhere.  At  space  rates  she  won't  be 
much  richer,  but  she  may  be  happier." 

"  Buy  that  poem,  and  you'll  have  Henry  on  your 
hands  for  the  rest  of  your  life,"  Radding  warned 
him. 

"  I  can't  take  you  seriously,"  said  Whitman  stub- 
bornly, "  because  I  feel  certain  that  Henry  —  isn't 
Henry." 

"  Do  you  want  to  back  your  judgment?  "  Radding 
demanded. 

"  I'll  stake  a  dinner  on  it." 

"  All  right,  my  boy.  If  I  win,  the  toast  will  be 
to  Henry  Luff  kin,  village  poet." 

"  And  if  I  win,"  Whitman  laughed,  entering  into 
the  spirit  of  Radding's  fun,  "  the  toast  will  be  to  — 
Lady  Valentine." 


CHAPTER  II 

LIKE  to  eat  at  Tony's,  because  he  cuts  out 
the  din."  As  he  spoke,  Whitman  lifted  the 
cover  from  two  of  the  thick,  juicy  English  chops 
which  were  the  restaurant's  specialty,  and  passed 
one  to  Radding.  "  I  don't  care  to  compete  with 
a  Hungarian  orchestra  and  a  cabaret  show  when 
I  have  something  to  say,"  he  finished. 

"Have  you  something  to  say?" 

The  question  caused  Whitman  to  flush  con- 
sciously. Radding  was  so  unfailingly  logical. 

"  Nothing  special,"  the  younger  man  parried ;  and 
through  the  rest  of  the  meal  he  discreetly  confined 
his  conversation  to  commonplaces.  It  was  not  un- 
til after  the  souffle  that  he  said  with  forced  non- 
chalance : 

"  By  the  way,  Rad,  it  looks  as  if  I'd  won  the 
bet." 

"What  bet?" 

"What  bet!  The  one  about  the  writer  of  the 
letter  from  Deep  Harbor." 

"  Ah,"  said  Radding  carelessly,  "  I'd  forgotten." 

"Forgotten!"  Whitman  looked  at  his  friend 
closely,  as  if  to  test  his  sincerity.  He  could  never 
be  sure  when  Radding  was  quizzing  him. 

15 


16  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"Heard  something,  have  you?"  Radding  asked. 

For  answer  Whitman  fumbled  in  his  breast 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  letter  which  he  spread  on 
the  table  before  them.  "  This  came  this  morning, 
in  answer  to  my  acceptance  of  the  poem,"  he  said. 

"What  did  you  say  in  your  acceptance?  I'm 
not  sure  that  doesn't  interest  me  more  than 
'  Henry's '  reply." 

"  Why?  "  There  was  a  hint  of  defiance  in  Whit- 
man's manner. 

"  I  don't  know;  I  just  wondered." 

"  I  said  we'd  give  five  dollars  for  the  poem,"  said 
Whitman.  "  I  wish  it  might  have  been  more." 

"Is  that  all  you  said?" 

"All  except—" 

"Except—?" 

"  I  did  speak  of  her  " 

"His/'  corrected  Radding,  plainly  enjoying 
Whitman's  resentment  at  the  change  of  pronoun. 

"  I  did  speak  of  her  trouble,"  continued  Whit- 
man. "  I  think  I'd  have  been  a  brute  not  to  have 
mentioned  it." 

"  Are  you  so  tender  with  all  your  contributors?  " 

"  I  never  had  much  to  do  with  the  correspondence 
before,"  the  young  editor  explained.  "  They  put 
me  on  the  job  because  the  office  is  short  handed  at 
this  time  of  year." 

"  Ah,  I  see.  And  so  you  told  '  Henry  '  that  you 
were  sympathetic  with  him  in  his  difficulty  ?  " 

"  Not  that  exactly.  I  told  the  girl  who  wrote 
the  letter  that  I  hoped  the  encouragement  from  the 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  17 

magazine  would  be  the  beginning  of  better  things 
for  her." 

"  Anything  more  ?  " 

"  Hang  it,  Rad.  Why  are  you  so  curious  ?  .  .  . 
Let  me  see.  The  whole  letter  was  only  a  few  type- 
written words.  Nothing  very  personal  in  that, 
you'll  admit." 

"Dictate  the  letter?" 

"  No,  I  happened  to  write  it  myself." 

"I  see!    Goon." 

"  Go  on !  I  can't  remember  what  I  was  going  to 
say,  you  pick  me  up  so  every  other  word." 

"  I'll  promise  not  to  do  it  again.  What  else  was 
in  the  letter?" 

"  That  was  about  all,  except  I  did  say  I  knew  how 
he  felt  (I  had  to  say  '  he '  until  I'd  proved  that  the 
name  was  a  blind.)  " — 

"  Yes ;  or  the  truth." 

"  And  I  told  her  that  I  spent  my  boyhood  in  a 
village  like  Deep  Harbor." 

"  Did  you  let  *  Henry '  know  what  a  short  time 
ago  that  was  ?  " 

Whitman  showed  his  white,  even  teeth  in  a  broad, 
conscious  smile,  as  he  met  Radding's  twinkling  eyes 
across  the  table.  "  Rad,  I've  a  guilty  conscience," 
he  confessed.  "  I  hope  it  was  fair;  but  if  she  could 
pretend  to  be  a  man,  I  thought  I  might  pretend  to 
be  an  old  one.  A  fatherly  friend  seemed  to  be 
what  she  needed." 

"  Urn  umph." 

"  I  did  not  say  I  corresponded  to  her  picture  of 


i8  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

me;  but  I  did  say  that  no  matter  how  gray  my 
whiskers  or  how  ample  my  white  waistcoat,  I  could 
never  forget  my  own  early  struggle  for  a  footing." 

Radding  nodded.  "  I  see,"  he  said.  "  Now 
we've  had  the  prologue,  let's  have  the  letter." 

"  Shall  I  read  it,  or  will  you?  "  asked  Whitman. 

"  You  read  it,  if  you  will.  That  kind  of  angular 
hand-writing  makes  my  eyes  tired." 

"  She  thought  it  was  manly  to  write  that  way," 
Whitman  defended  the  writer.  He  began  to  read 
the  letter,  lowering  his  voice  so  that  the  good  Ger- 
man family  near  them  could  not  hear. 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 
"Dear  Editor  of  Better  Every  Week: 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you  for  your  letter  and  the 
money.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt  when  I  got 
the  courage  to  look  into  Box  37  and  made  sure 
that  there  was  an  envelope  between  the  seed 
catalogue  and  the  weekly  copy  of  The  Harbor. 

"  All  the  way  down  the  road  I  had  said  to  my- 
self '  there  won't  be  a  letter  there.  I  know  there 
won't.  I  don't  expect  any ; '  but  that  was  just 
to  keep  up  my  courage  in  case  another  empty  day 
awaited  me.  Did  you  ever  cheat  yourself  that 
way  when  you  were  young?  But  when  I  got  to 
the  Post  Office  there  was  my  letter. 

"  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  open  it  until  I 
was  at  home  with  the  door  locked.  Then  if  you 
had  returned  my  verses,  I  could  have  had  a  good 
cry.  But  as  I  ran  down  the  road,  I  loosened  the 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  19 

flap,  put  in  one  finger  and  felt  the  check.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  it  meant.  It  wasn't  just  money. 
It  was  HOPE. 

"  And  your  letter, —  your  dear,  kind  letter.  I 
can't  find  the  right  words  to  thank  you  for  that. 
With  five  dollars  that  I  have  earned,  and  a  friend, 
I  know  I  can  accomplish  anything ! 

"  I  hope  you  will  accept  a  very  tiny  present  as 
a  mark  of  my  appreciation  of  your  kindness,  just 
a  simple  little  gift  from  Deep  Harbor.  I  hoped 
if  you  are  old,  it  might  please  you.  Grandfather 
used  to  wear  them. 

"  Gratefully  yours, 

"  HENRY  LUFFKIN." 

"  What  was  the  present  ?  "  Radding  asked,  not  at- 
tempting to  conceal  his  amusement. 

Whitman  hesitated.  Then  he  reached  into  his 
pocket  and  took  out  a  soft  gray  ball,  which  he  kept 
in  his  own  hands,  smoothing  it  gently.  "  Wrist- 
lets," he  said.  "  Gray  worsted  wristlets." 

"  What  on  earth  are  wristlets  ?  " 

'  That  shows  you  weren't  brought  up  in  the  coun- 
try, Rad."  He  slipped  the  bands  on  his  wrists  and 
held  his  hands  out,  smiling.  "  You  can  saw  wood, 
milk  cows,  pump  water,  do  all  sorts  of  things  that 
are  best  done  with  bare  hands,  and  yet  keep  warm, 
if  you  have  wristlets.  I  wouldn't  take  anything 
for  them.  Not  that  I'll  use  them  in  New  York; 
but  because  they'll  bring  up  my  boyhood  every  time 
I  look  at  them." 


20  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

Radding  examined  them  curiously.  "  I  see,"  he 
said.  "  I  wonder  where  *  Henry '  bought  them." 

"Henry!"  protested  Whitman.  "Henry! 
Won't  you  acknowledge  you're  beaten,  yet?  Did 
'  Henry  '  knit  wristlets  ?  Did  '  Henry '  write  that 
letter?" 

"  You  haven't  proved  he  didn't,  not  to  my  entire 
satisfaction." 

"  What  other  proof  do  you  want?  " 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  think  it  over.  I'll  try  my 
own  hand  at  the  detective  business.  Dine  here 
again  a  week  from  to-night,  and  I'll  have  some  evi- 
dence." 

"  Very  well,  a  week  from  to-night  —  but  Rad, 
you  know  more  about  girls  than  I  do,  I've  always 
avoided  them.  Girl  stenographers  can't  spell  and 
lady  contributors  cry  if  you  criticize  their  copy. 
But  tell  me  this,  if  Henry  is  a  girl  isn't  he  unusually 
interesting,  something  out  of  the  ordinary  ?  " 


CHAPTER  III 

A  WEEK  later,  well  before  the  appointed  hour, 
•*•*•  Caleb  Whitman  was  at  the  table,  which  he 
and  Radding  always  occupied,  under  the  cuckoo 
clock.  From  time  to  time  he  peered  intently  down 
the  aisle  between  the  rows  of  tables  overhung  with 
festoons  of  paper  flowers,  in  search  of  his  friend. 
He  neglected  to  unfold  the  evening  paper  he  had 
bought  at  the  door.  He  ignored  the  menu  which 
the  German  waiter  had  thrust  before  him.  He 
merely  waited,  with  impatience  in  which  there  was 
no  ill  nature,  but  only  eager  expectancy.  And  then, 
at  last,  he  saw  Radding  leisurely  strolling  down  the 
room. 

"  Well,"  said  Whitman,  as  his  friend  drew  out 
the  chair  opposite.  "  I  had  about  given  you  up." 

Radding  consulted  his  watch.  "  I  am  late,"  he 
said  dryly,  "  three  minutes." 

"  Three  minutes  seems  an  eternity  when  a  fel- 
low is  hungry,"  Whitman  defended  himself. 

"  If  you  are  as  hungry  as  that,"  Radding  drawled, 
his  mouth  twisted  into  a  whimsical  smile,  "  I'll  wait 
until  later  to  show  you  what  I  have  in  my  pocket." 

"  What  is  it,  Rad  ?  Show  it  to  me  and  quit  your 
kidding." 

"  Nothing  of  importance;  just  a  letter." 

21 


22  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Let's  see  it.     Hand  it  over." 

Radding  turned  to  the  waiter,  deliberately. 
"  Well,  Otto,  what  shall  we  have  to-night  ?  And, 
Caleb,  what  do  you  feel  like  eating?  " 

"  I'm  not  hungry." 

"  Not  hungry  ?  That's  good ;  because  this  din- 
ner's to  be  on  you." 

"  Like  thunder  it  is." 

"  Yes.  I'll  produce  the  evidence  that  wins  me 
the  bet  with  the  coffee." 

"  Then  I'll  have  my  coffee  with  my  dinner,"  Whit- 
man threatened. 

Radding  was  not  to  be  hurried.  He  ordered  the 
dinner  with  the  care  and  the  interest  of  a  man  whose 
time  is  abundant  and  whose  palate  is  discriminating, 
stopping  continually  to  consult  the  young  man  op- 
posite as  to  details,  ignoring  the  indifferent  shrugs 
with  which  his  questions  were  received. 

When  the  waiter  had  gone,  Whitman  leaned 
across  the  table.  "  I  call  your  hand,"  he  said.  "  I 
hold  a  better  one." 

"  If  you  have,  we'd  better  wait.  Then  each  of 
us  can  enjoy  his  dinner  in  the  pleasant  belief  that 
it's  on  the  other  fellow." 

"  All  right,"  agreed  Whitman,  with  no  very  good 
grace;  and  with  well  assumed  indifference  he  ap- 
plied himself  to  his  dinner. 

"  Want  a  demi-tasse?  "  Radding  asked,  when  the 
end  of  the  meal  had  at  last  been  reached. 

"  No,  I  don't.  Look  here,  Rad,  if  you  think  you 
are  teasing  me,  you  are  mistaken." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  23 

"Teasing!"  Radding  protested.  "Am  I  teas- 
ing? You  like  coffee,  don't  you?  " 

For  answer,  Whitman  held  out  his  hand. 
"  Come  on,  Rad;  what  have  you?  Hand  it  over." 

Radding  searched  his  coat  pockets.  "  By  Jove," 
he  muttered,  "  I  must  have  forgotten  it." 

"  No,  you  didn't.     Look  again." 

"  Ah,  here  it  is." 

As  Radding  drew  forth  the  letter,  Whitman 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  writing.  "  That's  not  her 
writing,"  he  said. 

"Whose  writing?" 

"  You  know  —  Lady  Valentine's." 

Radding  feigned  surprise.  "  Oh,  no,  I  haven't  a 
letter  from  *  Henry.'  " 

"  The  deuce  you  haven't.  Have  you  been  string- 
ing me  for  the  last  half  hour?  Did  you  think  I  was 
interested  in  your  general  correspondence  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  this  letter,  I 
confess."  Radcling's  tone  conveyed  a  sense  of  in- 
jury. "  It  can  wait,  however,  for  some  other  time." 

"Of  course  I'm  interested,  old  man,  in  anything 
that  interests  you,"  Whitman  cried  in  quick  con- 
trition. "Who's  the  letter  from?  What's  it 
about?" 

"  It's  from  Deep  Harbor,"  Radding  remarked 
casually,  adjusting  his  glasses,  "  and  it's  about  — 
Henry." 

Whitman's  interest  instantly  revived.  "  You  old 
fraud,"  he  said.  "  Give  it  to  me.  Honestly,  you 
ought  to  have  a  job  operating  a  rack." 


24  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Here  it  is,"  Radding  said  at  last,  passing  the 
letter  across  the  table,  deep-seated  amusement  hov- 
ering in  his  eyes ;  and  Whitman  read : 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 

"  Aug.  Qth,  191 — 
"  Mr.  James  Radding, 
"Dear  Sir: 

"  In  reply  to  your  inquiry  concerning  iden- 
tity of  one  Henry  Luffkin,  will  say  that  same  has 
resided  in  Deep  Harbor  for  past  fifty  years;  is 
church  member  in  good  standing,  engaged  in 
ferry  business. 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"  W.  L.  WILSON,  Postmaster." 

"  Well,"  Radding's  voice  recalled  Whitman  from 
the  perusal  of  the  letter.  "  It  looks  as  if  you  paid 
for  the  dinner." 

"  It  does,  does  it?  "  Whitman  retorted.  "  I've  a 
little  evidence  myself.  I've  been  holding  it  back 
until  you  produced  yours."  Whitman  reached  into 
his  own  pocket  and  drew  out  a  second  letter. 
"  This  came  yesterday,"  he  said.  "  I  did  a  little 
detective  work  myself.  I'm  not  very  proud  of  it, 
either.  If  that  little  girl  wants  to  go  incognito  " — 

"  What  girl  ?  "  Radding  asked  innocently. 

"  What  girl !     My  girl ;  Lady  Valentine." 

"Ah,  I  see." 

"  Here's  my  letter.  Listen  to  this,  and  tell  me  if 
a  ferryman,  aged  fifty,  wrote  it."  There  was  chal- 
lenge in  the  toss  of  Whitman's  red  head. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  25 

"  What's  the  prologue  to  this  one?  " 

"  When  I  thanked  her  for  the  wristlets,  I  sent  her 
a  box  of  candy  and  a  box  of  cigars." 

"  That  sounds  promising.  What  was  the  re- 
sult?" 

"This  was  the  result;"  and  Whitman  began  to 
read: 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 
"Dear  Editor  of  Better  Every  Week: 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  liked  the  wristlets.  Have 
you  really  wished  for  them  ever  since  you  were  a 
boy? 

"  I  can't  half  express  to  you  how  much  I  en- 
joyed your  candy.     I  never  tasted  anything  more 
delicious  than  those  chocolates,  especially  the  ones 
with  cocoanut  inside.     I  feel  like  a  person  in  a 
story  book  with  such  a  wonderful  gift. 
"  Thank  you  over  and  over  again. 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  HENRY  LUFFKIN. 
"  P.  S.     The  cigars  were  perfectly  lovely,  too." 

Radding  chuckled  appreciatively,  while  Whitman's 
smile  was  not  wholly  one  of  amusement.  "  Rad," 
he  said,  "  does  the  man  live  who  would  call  cigars 
'  perfectly  lovely '  or  forget  to  mention  them  un- 
til the  postscript?  " 

His  friend's  amusement  had  not  yet  spent  itself. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? "  Whitman  de- 
manded. 


26  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  To  think  "— 

"  To  think  what?     Stop  laughing." 

"To  think  —  to  think,"  gasped  Radding,  "you 
should  spend  your  good  money  — " 

"  Yes ;  go  on ;  I  never  begrudged  money  less." 

"  On  a  middle  aged  ferryman  who  happens  to 
have  a  sweet  tooth." 

Compassionate  silence  was  the  only  answer  Whit- 
man deigned  to  make. 

At  last  Radding  controlled  himself  sufficiently  to 
say,  "  Well,  it's  plain  we  shall  have  to  call  it  a  tie. 
.  .  .  The  next  step  I  suppose  is  to  run  up  there  and 
make  a  personal  investigation.  Too  bad  that  you 
are  going  to  that  camp  for  your  vacation.  Engaged 
a  place  there  some  time  ago,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Y-e-s,  I'm  off  Monday." 

"  Well,  it  makes  no  difference  especially.  I  can 
get  away  myself  in  another  week.  I'll  hunt  up 
Deep  Harbor  in  the  '  Blue  Book,'  and  run  up  there 
in  my  machine.  I  won't  mind  the  jaunt  in  the 
least." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  there  ?  " 
Whitman  demanded.  "  Nothing  to  make  it  em- 
barrassing for  the  girl,  remember  that." 

"  I'll  be  careful.  I  expect  to  get  a  lot  of  fun  out 
of  it.  If  the  valentine  poet  proves  to  be  the  ferry 
man,  I'll  sail  with  him.  If  the  poet  proves  to  be  a 
girl,  I'll  persuade  her  to  sail  with  me." 

"You  will,  will  you?  Pretty  sure  of  yourself, 
aren't  you,  Rad  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Radding  admitted,  after  thinking  the  mat- 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  27 

ter  over  for  a  few  moments;  "yes,  I  suppose  that 
I  am ;  but  you  see,  Caley,  even  though  I'm  hard  on 
forty  I  still  enjoy  girls.  I  have  none  of  your 
prejudice  against  them." 

"  So  that's  it,"  said  Whitman  dryly,  and  he  pushed 
back  his  chair  from  the  table  and  rose  decisively. 
"  I'm  getting  tired  of  this  joint,"  he  said.  "  I  think 
I'll  take  a  walk.  I  don't  know  when  I've  felt  so 
restless." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 

"  Aug.  1 6,  191 — 
"DearRad: 

"  Yes ;  stare  as  hard  as  you  will,  rub  your  eyes, 
put  on  your  glasses.  The  postmark  of  this  letter 
is  Deep  Harbor,  and  the  illegible  scrawl  is  that 
of  Caleb  Whitman,  editor  and  would-be  novelist. 

"  When  we  parted  Saturday  night  I  fully  in- 
tended to  carry  out  my  plan  of  going  to  the  camp. 
Indeed,  on  the  following  morning  I  bought  my 
ticket,  seated  myself  in  the  car  for  Utica  (which 
was  as  far  as  I  could  go  on  the  through  train) 
and  tried  to  lose  myself  in  contemplation  of  the 
expected  joys  before  me. 

"  Then  what  happened  ?  Why  didn't  I  get  to 
my  destination  ?  Why  am  I  not  at  this  very  mo- 
ment sitting  near  a  camp  fire  listening  to  the  stories 
of  how-the-trout-got-away?  I  can't  entirely  ex- 
plain it  myself.  The  human  mind  is  an  intricate 
piece  of  machinery,  and  you  know  my  stupidity  is 
boundless  when  I  am  asked  to  explain  the  work- 
ings of  a  machine.  All  I  know  is  that  the  wheels 
of  the  car  had  no  sooner  begun  to  grind  under  my 
particular  chair  than  the  prospect  of  the  weeks  in 
the  camp  affected  me  exactly  like  cold  pan  cakes. 

"  However,  there  I  sat,  letting  myself  be  borne 
28 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  29 

along  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  bacon,  the  corn- 
meal,  the  old  yarns,  and  the  straw  bed  under  the 
canvas.  When  we  reached  Utica,  I  clambered 
out,  to  wait  for  the  jerk-water  accommodation 
that  was  to  take  me  to  the  end  of  my  journey. 
It  was  hotter  than  a  greenhouse  in  summer.  I 
made  for  the  magazine  stand,  bought  a  copy  of 
our  own  sheet,  just  to  see  how  it  would  strike  me 
coming  off  the  news  stand,  and  —  I  won't  blame 
it  to  Better  Every  Week  —  I  fell  asleep.  I  was 
awakened  by  the  uniformed  human  megaphone 
bawling  out  a  train.  Looking  at  my  watch  I  saw 
that  it  was  time  for  my  own  old  ice  wagon  to 
start  into  the  hills;  so,  seizing  my  bag,  my  gun, 
my  fishing  tackle  and  a  few  other  little  trifles,  I 
ran  to  the  tracks,  just  in  time  to  see  a  train  pull- 
ing out. 

'  You  can  make  it,'  a  passenger  shouted, 
stretching  out  a  hand  for  my  bag.  So  I  ran,  and 
he  stretched,  until  finally,  with  his  help,  I  made 
the  step,  bags  and  all. 

"  '  Well/  he  said  good  naturedly,  *  that  was 
something  of  a  sprint; '  and  together  we  made  for 
the  smoking  car.  There  we  exchanged  the  usual 
confidences  as  to  politics  and  occupation.  After 
a  while  I  told  him  my  destination.  He  was 
solemn  faced.  He  stared  at  me  contritely. 
*  Partner/  he  said  sorrowfully,  *  I've  done  you  a 
bad  turn.  I've  h'isted  you  on  the  wrong  train. 
This  here  goes  west.  You're  headed  for  Jack- 
son.' 


30  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  '  What's  Jackson  like?  '  I  asked  hopefully. 

"  '  Jackson  is  a  fust  rate  town  —  electric  lights, 
trolley  car,  cement  sidewalks.'  He  stared  at  me 
uncertainly.  *  Don't  it  make  no  difference  to  you 
where  you  land  ? ' 

"  '  Not  much/  I  said.  '  I'm  on  my  vacation. 
Is  there  anything  to  do  at  Jackson?  Any  water 
there?  Fishing,  that  sort  of  thing?' 

"  '  Well,  no,  not  at  Jackson.  But  we  are  only 
ten  miles  from  the  lake.' 

"'What  lake?' 

"  *  What  lake !  Good  Lord ;  don't  you  know  in 
what  direction  you  are  going  ?  Lake  Ontario,  of 
course.' 

"  Lake  Ontario !  You  have  no  idea  how  cool 
that  sounded,  Rad.  I  let  my  mind  drift  away 
for  a  moment  from  the  hot  car,  the  stale  old  camp, 
out,  out  over  the  miles  of  shining  blue  waters.  It 
sounded  good  to  me. 

"  *  Know  any  quiet  place  on  the  lake  where  I 
can  board  for  a  week  or  two  ? ' 

"  '  Well,  no  place  with  style'  (You  see,  Rad, 
he  was  properly  impressed  by  my  general  appear- 
ance. He  saw  that  I  was  a  man  of  fashion  — 
which  is  more  than  you  ever  discovered).  He 
hesitated :  '  There's  awful  good  fishing  and  sail- 
ing at  Deep  Harbor.' 

"Deep  Harbor!  If  that  innocent  citizen  had 
discharged  a  cannon  in  my  ear,  I  could  not  have 
been  more  startled.  *  Deep  Harbor !  Deep  Har- 
bor !  Am  I  on  the  way  to  Deep  Harbor  ?  Of  all 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  31 

places  on  earth,  that's  the  one  I  want  to  go  to 
most.' 

"  '  Well,'  he  said,  looking  at  me  narrowly,  as  if 
to  detect  signs  of  a  disordered  mind.  *  You're 
the  fust  I  ever  heard  say  that.  Most  people  wants 
to  get  away  from  there.  It's  deader  than  — 
well,  deader  than  dead  fish.  It's  quieter  than  an 
empty  house.  It's  more  monotonous  than  an  old 
schooner  when  they  ain't  no  wind.' 

"  '  How  do  you  get  there  ? '  was  all  I  said  for 
answer. 

"  *  You  wait  two  hours  in  Jackson,  and  get  the 
dummy.  You  can't  count  on  it  being  on  time, 
either.' 

"  '  I'll  wait,'  I  said;  and  then,  as  the  conductor 
approached  —  he  had  been  delayed  by  an  argu- 
ment with  a  mother  as  to  whether  a  boy  of  twelve 
was  over  five  —  I  said  '  Ticket  for  Jackson,'  and 
all  was  settled. 

"  Then  Jackson  and  supper.  It  was  very  good, 
too,  served  in  a  neat  country  hotel.  Opposite  me 
was  a  young  sergeant  of  the  regulars  (it  seems 
there's  a  post  somewhere  in  this  locality),  uncom- 
monly good  looking  and  uncommonly  entertain- 
ing, so  that  the  time  passed  very  pleasantly  before 
we  parted  —  I  for  the  dummy,  he  for  the  army 
daugherty,  drawn  by  two  splendid  mules.  I  hope 
we  meet  again. 

"  Then  Deep  Harbor  in  the  blackness  of  a  sum- 
mer evening  with  just  enough  light  for  me  to  see 
that  the  one  village  street  of  any  pretension  slopes 


32  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

down  to  the  water;  that  the  town  stands  high  on 
the  bluffs;  and  that  it  looks  out  over  a  great  ex- 
panse of  water. 

"  As  for  the  hotel,  it  has  the  appearance  of  a 
moulting  bird.  My  ink  is  as  thick  as  curdled 
custard ;  my  pen  is  as  rusty  as  I  am  on  the  war  of 
1812  (one  of  the  naval  battles  of  that  war  was 
fought  in  this  harbor)  ;  and  my  table  is  as  un- 
steady as  a  ship  without  a  center  board.  Not 
very  promising  you  say?  I'm  not  so  sure.  I 
look  for  adventure  to-morrow.  In  the  mean- 
time, 

"  Yours  for  the  quest, 

"  CALEY." 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 

"Aug.  17,  191— 
"  Dear  Rad : 

"  When  I  tell  you  that  I  have  not  only  seen 
Henry  Luffkin,  but  that  I  have  been  talking  to 
him  all  this  long  sunny  morning;  that  I  have  ar- 
ranged to  board  with  him  and  his  sister  in  a  cot- 
tage as  white  as  the  lake  is  blue,  doubtless  you 
will  think  that  the  quest  is  over;  that  I  cry  '  Nuff,' 
and  that  the  dinner  is  on  me. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  The  chase  has  just  be- 
gun. For  not  even  you,  Radding,  could  suspect 
Henry  of  writing  verse,  knitting  wristlets  or  hav- 
ing *  a  good  cry.' 

"  I  found  him  in  the  early  morning  unreefing 
the  sail  of  the  '  ferry ' —  a  cat  boat  with  a  motor 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  33 

attachment.  He  is  a  rugged,  squarely  built  man 
with  an  eye,  honest  and  steady  and  very  blue  — 
as  sailor  men's  eyes  so  often  are,  from  long 
gazing  at  sea,  I  suppose.  Suspecting  that  he  was 
the  ferryman  of  the  postmaster's  report,  I  made 
the  sail  with  him  —  across  the  bay  to  a  hamlet 
that  boasts  a  cheese  factory. 

"  Occasional,  reluctant  monosyllables,  were  all 
I  succeeded  in  drawing  from  Henry  by  my  ef- 
forts at  conversation.  I  own  I  questioned  him 
shamelessly,  veiling  my  curiosity  by  frank  confi- 
dences of  my  own.  I  was  a  writer,  an  editor,  by 
trade ;  was  he  interested  in  the  modern  periodical  ? 

"  Only  in  The  Harbor,  a  sailor's  weekly. 

"  I  supposed  a  seafaring  man  like  him  could 
not  understand  what  kept  men  at  their  pens. 

"  No,  he  couldn't.  Thought  it  would  be  monot- 
onous. With  sailing  it  was  different.  No  two 
days  were  alike. 

"  Had  he  any  children  ?  A  daughter,  for  in- 
stance ? 

"  No,  he  was  a  bachelor.  His  sister  kept  the 
house.  She  to  be  sure  was  a  great  reader.  When 
the  old  post  office  was  torn  down,  he  had  fetched 
her  over  a  wheelbarrow  full  of  old  newspapers, 
and  she  wasn't  done  reading  them  yet ! 

" '  It's  the  sister,'  I  determined.  But  when 
(the  captain  having  admitted  they  had  an  extra 
room)  I  went  to  inspect  the  cottage  and  made 
Sister  Abby's  acquaintance,  I  saw  I  would  have  to 
drop  that  solution  of  our  little  mystery. 


34  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  For  Abby  was  a  drab  woman,  with  capable, 
worn  hands,  whose  conversation  was  limited  to 
the  frequent  repetition  of  '  Well,  for  pity  sakes! ' 
and  whose  interest  was  divided  between  keeping 
the  white  cottage  white  and  tending  a  bed  of 
Johnny- jump-ups,  neatly  surrounded  by  varie- 
gated pebbles. 

" '  This  is  a  beautiful  country/  I  said,  as  she 
threw  open  my  one  window,  neatly  protected  by 
mosquito  bar.  '  I  don't  know  of  any  place  on  the 
coast  with  a  finer  view.' 

"  '  For  pity  sakes ! '  said  Sister  Abby. 

"'  They  tell  me  the  British  fired  a  good  many 
balls  into  these  old  banks  in  1812,'  I  tried  again, 
undaunted. 

" '  They  drunk  from  our  well,'  said  Abby, 
pointing  out  to  an  open  well  in  the  sandy  yard  be- 
low. 

" '  I  should  think,'  said  I,  *  that  you  would  all 
turn  story  writers  in  this  country,  with  such  a 
background.' 

"  '  For  pity  sakes ! '  said  Abby.  '  Who'd  do  the 
work  ? ' 

" '  Don't  any  of  the  village  ladies  write  ?  ' 

" '  Yes,  sir,  all  of  'em.' 

"'All  of  them?'  This  was  more  than  I  had 
bargained  for. 

"  *  Some  writes  better  hands  than  others,  of 
course.' 

'  I  meant  fiction,'  I  explained, '  poems,  stories, 
that  sort  of  thing.' 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  35 

"  f  For  pity  sakes/  said  Sister  Abby. 

"  I  am  sure  she  will  make  me  comfortable  and 
forgive  me  anything  but  setting  a  sandy  shoe  on 
her  braided  rugs.  In  the  meantime  I  have  taken 
out  my  paper,  sharpened  my  pencils  and  begun  the 
novel.  It  ought  to  be  easy  to  write  a  sane  novel 
in  such  matter  of  fact  surroundings  —  there's 
nothing  about  Captain  Luffkin  or  Sister  Abby  to 
give  a  romantic  turn  to  my  yarn. 

"  As  ever, 

"  CALEY." 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 

"  Aug.  20,  191 — 
"  Dear  Rad : 

'''  Your  letter,  with  its  amazing  conclusions,  just 
received.  Honestly,  old  man,  I  don't  know  what 
has  come  over  you.  I  used  to  think  you  were  one 
of  the  most  astute  judges  of  human  nature  I  ever 
knew,  with  more  penetration  and  intuition  than 
any  man  of  my  acquaintance.  And  yet,  in  this 
letter,  open  before  me,  you  say,  '  I  am  convinced 
that  we  were  both  wrong.  Neither  a  pale  faced 
youth,  nor  a  charming  girl  wrote  the  verse  and 
the  letters.  Abby  wrote  them ! '  And  to  prove 
that  absurd  assertion,  you  find  proof  of  a  poetical 
temperament  in  Abby's  love  of  Johnny- jump- 
ups;  you  find  evidence  of  exquisite  sensitiveness 
in  a  nature  that  shrinks  from  the  rough  intruder 
(otherwise  me)  and  hides  its  real  feelings  and 
aspirations  in  the  single  phrase,  '  For  pity  sakes ; ' 


36  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

and  you  find  a  sense  of  humor  attested  by  the  re- 
mark, '  Yes,  they  all  write ;  some  writes  better 
hands  than  others.'  Really,  Rad,  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  you. 

"  And  yet  I  am  no  nearer  proving  who  did  write 
those  letters  and  knit  my  wristlets  than  I  was 
when  I  came.  Surely  it  was  none  of  the  village 
girls  whom  I  met  on  my  solitary  walks,  fresh  and 
comely  as  many  of  them  are.  Lady  Valentine 
wouldn't  nudge,  nor  giggle,  nor  stand  and  watch 
the  dummy  come  in,  with  her  mouth  wide  open 
like  a  slot  machine. 

"  You  ask  about  the  novel.  It  goes  haltingly. 
My  hero  is  made  of  sawdust,  and  my  girl  —  I 
don't  know  what  ails  her.  Perhaps  she  is  too 
sane.  I  don't  like  her,  and  neither  does  the  hero. 

"  CALEY." 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 

"  Aug.  22,  191 

"  Dear  Rad : 

"  Something  has  happened.  I  have  a  clue  — 
very  slight,  but  a  clue.  I  give  it  to  you  for  what 
it's  worth. 

"  Yesterday  the  novel  dragged.  I  can't  make 
my  sane  hero  very  convincing.  Sanity  in  love  is 
all  very  well  in  real  life  —  I  wish  there  were  more 
of  it  —  but  on  paper  it's  dull.  I  got  discouraged 
and  nervous.  The  hens  clucked  too  loud :  Abby 
said  '  For  pity  sakes  '  once  too  often.  Sometime 
in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  I  picked  up  my 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  37 

papers,  stuck  them  in  my  pocket  and  went  forth 
in  search  of  peace. 

"  The  bluffs  which  form  the  shores  of  the  bay 
are  of  a  soft  limestone.  They  look,  from  the 
ferry,  exactly  like  children's  slates  piled  neatly 
one  on  top  of  the  other.  I  walked  along  the  nar- 
row beach  for  a  mile  or  more,  enjoying  the  quiet 
and  the  smell  of  the  water.  Sometimes  the  beach 
disappeared  altogether,  and  then  I  clung  to  the 
cliffs  and  crept  along  the  rocks  until  I  found  an- 
other footing.  Well,  when  I  had  done  this  for 
an  hour,  the  beach  suddenly  came  to  such  an  ab- 
rupt end  that  there  was  no  hope  of  continuing 
my  walk  unless  I  wanted  to  swim !  Rather  than 
retrace  my  steps,  I  managed  to  pull  myself  up  the 
steep  cliff  —  it  was  some  fifty  feet  high  —  so  it 
was  no  easy  task. 

"  When  I  reached  the  summit,  decidedly  the 
worse  for  the  scramble,  there,  to  my  surprise,  was 
a  most  charming  old  brick  mansion,  the  kind  with 
fire  wings  on  the  sides.  I  felt  as  if  it  were  look- 
ing at  my  untied  cravat,  my  stained  trousers  and 
my  sandy  shoes,  in  dignified  surprise. 

'  Hello,'  I  said,  *  where  did  you  come  from  ?  ' 
But,  the  mansion  making  no  answer  except  to 
stare  harder  out  of  its  eight  eye-like  windows  that 
faced  the  road,  I  approached  it  and  stared  over  the 
hedge  by  which  it  was  surrounded.  A  flag  stone 
walk,  sunken  and  worn,  led  through  tall  grass 
to  the  loveliest  old  doorway  you  ever  saw :  a  door 
painted  white,  with  a  brass  knocker,  at  the  top  of 


38  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

long  steps  crowned  by  a  small  latticed  porch;  all 
overgrown  with  some  flowering  vine,  and  look- 
ing like  a  sweet  face  peering  out  of  a  poke  bonnet. 

"  There  was  something  about  the  place  that 
said,  *  Nobody  at  home.'  Most  of  the  shades  were 
drawn.  The  steps  were  littered  with  the  leaves 
which  drifted  from  the  vine  every  time  a  fresh 
puff  of  wind  came  off  the  lake;  so  I  made  bold  to 
push  open  the  gate,  walk  up  the  steps  and  pull  the 
bell,  which  jangled  lonesomely  through  the  silence. 

"  Nobody  came.  I  grew  bolder  and  pressed 
my  nose  to  the  slits  of  windows  on  either  side  of 
the  door  and  found  myself  looking  directly  into 
a  wide  hall,  hung  with  family  portraits,  furnished 
in  old  mahogany.  A  delicately  balustraded  stair- 
way wound  upward,  hinting  at  bed  chambers  sweet 
with  lavender  and  orris.  Through  an  open  door 
I  caught  a  glimpse,  a  very  small  glimpse,  of  the 
state  room,  papered  with  one  of  those  old  land- 
scape papers  we  sometimes  see  reproduced.  I 
have  no  doubt  it's  been  there  since  1812,  and  that 
the  oriental  figures  in  turbans,  majestically  ascend- 
ing and  descending  the  broad  steps,  have  seen 
history  made. 

"  I  wandered  around  to  the  rear  of  the  place. 
The  grounds,  some  four  acres  I  should  say,  are 
all  to  the  back,  the  mansion  itself  being  com- 
fortably near  the  front  gate. 

"  A  path  led  me  through  some  funereal  ever- 
greens into  a  thicket,  at  the  far  end  of  the  garden, 
near  the  road  that  runs  past  the  rear ;  and  here  I 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  39 

found  a  summer  house,  completely  concealed  in 
the  thicket.  Inside  there  was  a  rustic  table,  and 
a  rough  seat  encircled  the  walls. 

"I  seated  myself  as  if  I  were  the  owner  —  I 
wish  I  were  —  brushed  off  the  leaves  that  covered 
the  table  and  began  to  revise  my  novel  then  and 
there.  I  am  going  to  have  my  heroine  live  in 
that  house  and  see  if  her  surroundings  won't 
humanize  her.  I  am  going  to  write  every  day  un- 
til somebody  comes  home  and  drives  me  out. 

"  The  clue !  I  almost  forgot.  On  the  rustic 
table,  among  the  leaves,  I  found  a  bit  of  cross 
barred  paper,  torn  across,  on  which  some  one  had 
written  in  angular  characters,  '  Dear  Editor  of 
Better  Every  Week:'  I  suppose  you  will  argue, 
Rad,  that  any  one  could  have  written  those  words 
—  some  old  lady  who  meant  to  subscribe  for  the 
magazine,  for  instance.  Think  what  you  will. 
As  for  me  —  well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  when 
I  write  again. 

"  Yours, 

"  CALEY." 


CHAPTER  V 

THREE  days  passed.  Each  afternoon  Caleb 
Whitman  put  his  manuscript  under  his  arm 
and  sought  the  garden.  He  skirted  the  curious 
village  in  a  wide  circle,  and  came  upon  the  red  walls 
of  the  mansion  by  the  little  used  road  that  ran  past 
the  rear  of  its  grounds. 

The  place  was  still  deserted.  He  was  free  to 
drink  from  the  open  well,  to  pick  the  grapes  which 
were  ripening  slowly  on  the  untrimmed  vines  that 
covered  the  long  arbor  stretching  from  the  kitchen 
door  to  the  stile.  Above  all  he  was  free  to  make  use 
of  the  woodland  bower  hidden  securely  in  the  far 
corner.  Here  he  spread  his  papers  broadcast  and 
worked  on  his  novel,  heavily,  laboriously,  hour  after 
hour.  Sometimes  he  paused  to  sigh,  sometimes  — 
to  listen. 

A  bird  chirped  contentedly  in  a  bush.  A  wood- 
pecker drummed  on  a  tree.  Insects  whirred  faintly 
in  the  grass.  The  wind  rustled  in  the  woodbine 
that  covered  the  bower.  Far  in  the  distance  a  cock 
sent  forth  his  triumphant  cry.  And  that  was  all  — 
no  other  sound  of  life  —  for  three  long  summer 
afternoons. 

It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  Whitman  should  be 
startled  as  he  approached  the  house  on  the  fourth 

40 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  41 

day,  to  see  a  huckster's  wagon  standing  near  the  stile. 
As  he  hesitated  whether  to  turn  back,  the  huckster 
came  toward  him  down  the  arbor.  "  Know  when 
the  folks  are  expected  back  ?  "  he  called,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  Whitman. 

"  I  do  not,"  answered  Whitman ;  "  I'm  a  stranger 
here."  Then  he  put  the  question  that  he  had  hesi- 
tated to  put  to  the  captain.  "  Who  lives  in  this 
beautiful  old  place?" 

"  Old  Miss  Lowell." 

"Old  Miss—" 

"  Yes,  a  maiden  lady,  Miss  Roxana  Lowell. 
She's  our  aristocracy  about  here.  Brought  up 
proud,  you  might  say.  Been  here  pretty  near  as 
long  as  the  house  —  and  that's  some  time,  I  can  tell 
you.  .  .  .  You  can't  use  no  huckleberries,  I  sup- 
pose, if  you  are  a  stranger  here?  " 

"  No,"  Whitman  smiled ;  and  he  waited  to  enter 
the  garden  until  the  huckster  had  rattled  down  the 
road  and  disappeared. 

"  Miss  Roxana  Lowell,"  he  murmured,  seating 
himself  at  the  table  in  the  retreat.  "  That's  one  on 
both  Rad  and  me."  And  he  began  to  write,  impul- 
sively. 

"  Dear  Rad : 

"  Alas  for  Henry ;  alas  for  Lady  Valentine ; 
alas  for  romance !  " 

Then  he  pushed  the  paper  away.  "  Old  Miss 
Lowell,"  he  repeated  ironically,  and  lost  himself  in 


42  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

reverie.  Quite  suddenly  the  garden  seemed  to  him 
the  loneliest  spot  in  the  world.  The  bower  where  he 
sat  ceased  to  be  a  snug  retreat;  it  became  simply  a 
summer  house,  with  unpainted,  rotting  latticed  walls, 
damp  and  a  little  cold. 

He  took  up  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  and  began  — 

"  Dear  Rad : 

"  I'm  coming  back.     This  place  has  gotten  on 
my  nerves.     The  novel  won't  go  " — 

Something  snapped.  He  raised  his  head  to  listen. 
Only  silence,  except  for  the  whir  of  a  thrush  in  the 
woods,  and  the  distant  plaintive  cry  of  a  gull. 
Again  he  bent  over  the  paper. 

And  then  the  branches  of  the  low  hanging  trees 
parted  like  a  screen,  the  bows  snapped  back  into 
place,  and  a  girl  stood  in  the  archway  of  the  bower. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  doing  in  my  sum- 
mer house?  " 

The  voice  was  clear  and  sweet.  Caleb  Whitman 
raised  his  head  and  looked  into  gray  eyes  with  long 
dark  lashes,  eyes  that  did  not  fall  nor  quiver,  though 
the  color  that  flooded  the  girl's  cheeks  and  the  quick 
breathing  that  stirred  her  quaint  muslin  gown,  at- 
tested suppressed  excitement.  There  was  something 
birdlike  in  the  quick  startled  glance  of  her  eyes,  in 
the  poise  of  her  vibrant  little  figure  as  she  hovered  at 
the  door  ready  for  instant  flight.  Whitman  sprang 
to  his  feet. 

"  Is  this  Miss  Roxana  Lowell?  " 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  43 

"  No,  I'm  just  Nancy,  her  niece." 

She  waited  for  him  to  continue,  a  hand  on  either 
side  of  the  doorway  barring  all  retreat. 

"  I'm  a  summer  visitor,"  he  hastened  to  explain. 
"  I  am  staying  in  the  village.  I  found  your  house 
deserted  —  I  supposed  for  the  summer  —  and  I  have 
been  making  bold  to  bring  my  papers  out  here  and 
make  use  of  your  bower  for  a  study.  I'm  going  to 
make  bolder,  and  ask  you  —  if  it  would  be  possible 
for  me  to  continue  to  come?  Your  garden  is  so 
large  —  I've  become  so  attached  to  it  " — 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  For  you  see  —  you  must  go 
—  this  instant,  never  to  come  back." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  Couldn't  we  make  some 
arrangement  ?  I  can  get  letters,  you  know,  to  prove 
I'm  a  respectable  person  —  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  You  couldn't  get  letters  proving  you  weren't  a 
man,"  said  Nancy,  "  and  above  all  things  a  man  is 
what  Aunt  Roxana  most  abhors.  She  won't  have 
one  about  the  premises.  She  won't  let  even  a  very 
little  boy  come  to  weed  the  garden.  She  hires  a 
woman  to  cut  the  grass." 

"And  are  men  equally  distasteful  to  you?" 

"  I've  never  known  any,  except  the  village  people ; 
and  they're  quite  old.  But  Aunt  Roxana  says  that 
men,  especially  young  men,  are  the  cause  of  all  the 
trouble  in  the  world.  .  .  .  And  they  certainly  have 
been  the  cause  of  her  trouble." 

"  We  haven't  always  made  a  good  record  for  our- 
selves," Whitman  confessed,  smiling  into  the  earnest 
little  face  across  the  table.  "  But  if  one  man  would 


44  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

promise,  very  solemnly,  to  try  to  the  best  of  his 
ability  "— 

"  It  wouldn't  do  any  good.  She  wouldn't  believe 
you,"  the  girl  sighed. 

"  Wouldn't  it  melt  her  heart,  ever  so  little,  if  I 
went  in  and  told  her  " — 

Nancy's  hands  tightened  on  the  arched  door- 
way. 

"  No,"  she  said  fearfully,  looking  over  her  shoul- 
der in  the  direction  of  the  house.  "  No,  you 
mustn't  ask  her  anything.  If  she  kn£w  you  were 
here,  you  would  have  to  go  —  at  once." 

A  smile  quivered  on  Whitman's  lips. 

"  Then  I  don't  have  to  go  —  at  once?  " 

Nancy  sank  provisionally  onto  the  round  seat  that 
circled  the  latticed  house,  and  Caleb,  after  a  mo- 
ment, seated  himself  also,  on  the  far  end. 

"  You  may  stay  —  just  long  enough  —  to  tell  me 
what  you  were  doing  here  when  I  came." 

"  I  was  writing  a  novel." 

"  A  novel  "— 

"  Yes,  and  I've  been  so  bold  as  to  put  your  house 
and  your  garden  in  my  story." 

"  Oh,  if  Aunt  Roxana  knew  that!  " 

"Would  —  it  please  her?  It's  such  a  beautiful 
old  place,  I  really  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Please  her !  She  dislikes  novels  almost  as  much 
as  men.  If  she  knew  there  was  a  man  in  her 
garden,  writing  a  novel " — 

Nancy  did  not  try  to  complete  her  sentence,  leav- 
ing it  to  Whitman  to  imagine  the  state  of  Aunt 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  45 

Roxana's  mind  under  the  double  provocation.  She 
lightly  touched  one  of  the  pages  — 

"  Perhaps,  though,  this  is  not  a  love  story?  It's 
love  stories  she  dislikes  most." 

"  This  isn't  much  of  a  love  story,"  the  young  man 
explained  eagerly,  hoping  to  gain  favor.  He  moved 
a  very  little  nearer,  and  took  up  the  pages  as  if  to 
outline  the  plot.  "  You  see,  this  novel  endeavors  to 
deal  truthfully  with  life,"  he  began. 

"  Yes;  that's  what  Aunt  Roxana  thinks  they  fail 
to  do." 

"  My  hero  is  a  sane  hero  " — 

"  A  sane  hero  ? "  questioned  Nancy.  She  had 
propped  her  elbow  on  the  table  and  supported  her 
chin  in  the  cup  of  one  pink  palm.  Her  eyes,  soft 
and  trusting,  were  fixed  intently  on  the  young  man's 
face. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Whitman,  his  mind  wandering 
from  his  hero  to  the  way  Nancy's  black,  silky  hair 
grew  about  her  white  brow  and  waved  over  her  little 
ears.  "  A  sensible  chap,"  he  went  on  automatically, 
"  who  doesn't  fall  in  love  " — 

"  Never  —  in  his  whole  life?  " 

Whitman  stopped  short.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  have 
him  do  so,"  he  said,  doubtfully.  "  You  see  he  picked 
out  his  intended  wife  with  his  head  " — 

"  Like  Aunt  Roxana  does  her  dresses,"  mused 
Nancy. 

"  He  didn't  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world  " — 

"Was  she?" 


46  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  No,"  the  author  said  gayly,  with  joyful  recogni- 
tion of  the  fact. 

"What  was  she  like?" 

"  She  was  a  great  raw  boned  creature,  that  could 
walk  ten  miles  at  a  stretch  and  leap  higher  than  any 
girl  in  the  gymnasium." 

"That  wasn't  quite  genteel,  was  it?"  Nancy 
smiled,  as  if  they  must  be  of  one  accord  on  that  point. 

"  It  wasn't  very  attractive  —  someway." 

"  Were  her  clothes  —  pretty?  " 

The  gray  eyes  dropped  to  the  skirt  of  her  muslin 
dress,  the  white  hands  played  with  a  tiny  brooch  of 
pearls  at  her  throat. 

"  She  wore  mostly  a  short  skirt  and  a  jumper, 
and  large  loose  shoes." 

"  Didn't  they  make  her  feet  look  very  large  ?  " 

Whitman  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  small  foot  in  a 
black  slipper  with  a  peep  of  white  stocking. 

"  Yes,"  he  smiled,  "  they  looked  exactly  like  flat 
boats." 

"  Was  her  hair  pretty  ? "  A  delicate  hand 
smoothed  back  one  soft  lock  at  the  nape  of  her 
neck. 

"  No,  she  wore  it  short  —  to  save  time  for  more 
important  things." 

"What  kind  of  things?" 

"  I  hadn't  gotten  that  far." 

Whitman  paused,  in  doubt.  But  the  eager  ques- 
tions continued. 

"  What  did  your  lovers  call  each  other  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  47 

"  What  names  ?  Aunt  Roxana  always  crossed 
out  the  love  names,  with  a  black  pencil,  in  my  sto- 
ries." 

"  He  called  her  '  Mary.'  She  called  him  '  John,'  " 
he  admitted.  Then  he  asked  eagerly,  "  Do  you  like 
—  love  names?  " 

Nancy's  answer  was  indirect.  "  In  the  Song  of 
Songs,"  she  murmured  dreamily,  "  the  lovers  called 
each  other  '  beloved  '  and  '  he  whom  my  soul  loves ; ' 
and  they  said  —  but  maybe  you  aren't  interested? 
I  don't  think  King  Solomon  was  a  very  sensible 
lover  "— 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  interested.  What  did  they  call 
each  other?  " 

The  girl's  lashes  veiled  her  bright  eyes,  the  roses 
sprang  to  her  cheeks  as  she  repeated  the  ardent 
words  softly,  for  the  ear  so  near  her  own.  "  Solo- 
mon said  to  the  Shulamite,  '  As  a  lily  among  thorns, 
so  is  my  love  among  the  daughters  " — 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Whitman,  his  eyes  on  Nancy's 
face,  and  his  heart,  he  did  not  pretend  to  explain 
why,  giving  an  extra  beat. 

"  And  the  Shulamite  said  of  Solomon  " —  the  girl 
raised  her  lashes  and  spoke  clearly,  looking  straight 
ahead,  " '  As  the  apple  tree  among  the  trees  of  the 
wood,  so  is  my  beloved  among  the  sons  of  men.' 
And  I've  always  thought,"  said  Nancy,  "  that  un- 
less a  man  felt  that  way  about  a  girl,  and  a  girl  felt 
that  way  about  a  man,  it  wasn't  love." 

"  Nor  is  it,"  cried  Whitman,  with  conviction.  He 
drew  a  long  breath;  then  he  deliberately  took  up 


48  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

his  papers  and  tore  them  straight  through  the 
middle. 

"  Oh,"  said  Nancy,  "  why  did  you  do  that?  " 

"  To  mark  the  end,"  said  he,  "  once  for  all,  of  that 
sane  love  story." 

"  Will  you  write  another?  " 

"  Yes,  if  I  may  come  here  again  to-morrow." 

She  hesitated  as  she  rose.     "  I  don't  know  — " 

"  Just  once  —  for  luck,"  he  urged. 

"  Well  —  just  once  more." 

"  And  you  will  come,  too  ?  " 

"HI  do,"  said  Nancy,  moving  towards  the  door, 
and  looking  back  irresolutely  over  one  shoulder,  "  it 
will  be  just  to  tell  you  to  go." 

"  Of  course,"  Whitman  agreed.  And  then,  as 
she  disappeared,  he  picked  up  the  scattered  papers 
and  stuffed  them  in  his  pocket. 

'  There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  whispered  softly 
as  he  left  the  garden ;  "  I've  found  you,  my  little 
Lady  Valentine." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  Luffkins'  twelve  o'clock  dinner  left  Whit- 
man free  to  seek  the  bower  the  next  day  when 
the  sun  was  still  high  in  the  zenith.  He  told  him- 
self that  he  went  early  in  order  to  have  a  long  after- 
noon to  devote  to  the  revised  version  of  his  book  — 
and  there  were  moments  when  he  believed  himself. 

When  he  reached  the  Lowell  place,  he  slackened 
his  step  and  loitered  by,  letting  his  eyes  roam  boldly 
over  such  portions  of  the  grounds  as  he  could 
glimpse  between  the  tall,  untrimmed  boughs  of  the 
hedge.  He  had  approached  by  the  rear  so  that  he 
looked  onto  the  comfortable  kitchen  porch,  the  vege- 
table garden,  Nancy's  flowers  and  the  clothes  line 
where  white  fluttering  garments  proclaimed  the  fam- 
ily's return.  At  the  turnstile  he  paused  to  peer 
down  the  arbor's  leafy  tunnel.  Surely,  a  woman 
moved  toward  the  gate. 

"  It's  Nancy,"  he  said,  and  waited. 

In  another  moment  he  saw  his  mistake.  Though 
erect  as  a  poplar,  the  woman  was  no  longer  young. 
Her  carriage,  straight  and  unyielding,  was  that  of  a 
past  generation. 

"  It's  Aunt  Roxana,"  Whitman  decided,  and  he 
strolled  on  his  way  in  some  trepidation,  just  as  the 
old  lady  turned  the  stile  and  walked  down  the  road 

49 


5o  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

in  the  direction  of  the  village,  holding  her  gray  skirts 
just  high  enough  to  reveal  congress  gaiters  and 
white  stockings. 

"  Well,"  the  young  man  sighed,  "  if  the  angel  with 
flaming  sword  leaves  Eden  unguarded,  I  suppose  no 
one  can  blame  Adam  for  stealing  back  " ;  and  a  mo- 
ment after,  he  found  the  break  in  the  thicket  he  had 
used  the  day  before  as  an  exit,  and  made  his  way  to 
the  bower. 

He  had  half  hoped  to  find  Nancy  awaiting  him; 
but  the  little  retreat  was  empty.  The  sun  played 
through  the  woodbine,  making  patterns  on  the  rustic 
table  and  on  the  round  seat  where  he  and  Nancy  had 
sat  such  a  short  time  since.  In  its  rays  gleamed  a 
bit  of  folded  paper,  on  the  center  of  the  table. 

"  A  note,"  said  the  young  man ;  and  his  heart  sank 
with  foreboding  even  as  his  eager  fingers  reached 
for  it. 

"  For  the  Man  in  the  Garden,"  the  note  was  ad- 
dressed. Unfolding  it,  he  read : 

"If  you  are  in  the  garden,  will  you  please  go 
away  at  once,  or  at  least  before  three  o'clock ;  for 
at  that  hour  I  am  coming  out  with  my  cross  stitch 
—  and  of  course  I  can't  stay  if  you  are  there. 

"  NANCY  ROSE." 

Whitman's  laugh  startled  a  curious  sparrow. 
"  Nancy  Rose,"  he  said,  "  if  you'd  ever  had  any 
practice,  I  should  say  you  were  past  mistress  of  the 
art  of  flirting.  Did  you  really  think  any  son  of 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  51 

Adam  would  obey  an  order  like  that?"  and  he 
folded  the  little  note  into  his  pocket  book.  As  he 
did  so,  he  came  upon  the  three  letters,  with  the  mas- 
culine signature,  which  had  so  whetted  his  curiosity 
less  than  a  month  past.  Spreading  them  out  before 
him,  he  now  compared  the  penmanship  with  that  of 
the  note  he  had  just  found.  Again  he  laughed  and 
shook  his  head.  For  all  the  writer's  determined 
boldness  on  the  pen's  downward  stroke,  the  note  and 
the  letters  were  unmistakably  by  the  same  hand. 

And  then,  while  the  minutes  crawled  toward  the 
promised  hour  of  three,  he  read  all  the  letters  again, 
trying  to  deduce  the  motive  that  had  led  the  girl  to 
borrow  the  captain's  honest  name. 

If  Nancy  had  literary  ambitions,  he  reasoned,  she 
would  have  deluged  the  magazine  with  further  con- 
tributions, once  her  little  verses  had  been  accepted. 
If  she  had  masqueraded  for  mere  love  of  adventure, 
she  would  have  gained  more  by  dropping  the  mask 
once  her  letter  had  been  answered.  If  she  had  only 
wanted  money  for  some  girlish  whim,  why  was  such 
secrecy  necessary? 

He  could  not  guess  her  motive,  but  whatever  it 
was,  he  determined  to  respect  the  innocent  incognito 
until  Nancy  herself  should  care  to  throw  it  aside. 
In  the  meantime  he  would  become  her  friend,  he 
decided;  not  a  shadowy  well  wisher  in  the  editorial 
office  of  Better  Every  Week,  pretending  to  age,  but 
a  young  friend  such  as  he  was  sure  she  needed ;  such 
as  with  care  he  might  hope  to  become  even  in  the 
fortnight  left  him. 


52  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

He  turned  to  his  book.  He  had  worked  on  the 
new  chapters  all  the  evening  before  in  the  expecta- 
tion that  he  would  have  something  to  show  two 
bright  eyes  when  they  peeped  through  the  trees. 

At  last  she  came.  Her  reproachful,  "  Oh !  you 
stayed!"  brought  him  back  from  the  world  of  his 
dreams.  She  was  standing  in  the  door  irresolutely, 
a  little  beaded  reticule  on  her  arm  from  which  some 
needlework  protruded. 

"  Is  it  three?  "  he  said,  with  a  poor  feint  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  Yes,  it  is  three." 

He  pretended  preoccupation.  "  I'm  in  a  very  im- 
portant place  in  the  novel;  would  you  mind  very 
much  if  I  finished  a  paragraph,  just  a  word  or  two 
describing  the  new  heroine,  before  I  go  away?  " 

"  N-o-o,  not  if  you'll  make  haste." 

She  stood  patiently  by  the  door,  her  black  head 
against  the  crimson  vines.  Whitman  looked  up. 

"  Oh,  if  you  won't  sit  down  and  sew,"  he  said, 
"  just  exactly  as  if  I  were  not  here,  I  shall  feel  too 
guilty  to  linger.  And  I  have  just  a  word  more  — 
then  I'll  be  off  for  good  and  all." 

She  dropped  onto  the  seat.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  saw  her  fingers  slide  into  the  depths  of 
the  reticule  and  bring  forth  a  tiny  square  of  linen. 
A  moment  later  bright  cotton  threads  lay  on  her  lap, 
her  needle  pricked  the  pattern  and  drew  the  gay 
strands  through  the  cloth. 

The  man  at  the  table  wrote  on,  more  silent  than 
the  afternoon. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  53 

"  Is  she  pretty?  "  asked  Nancy. 

The  writer  pulled  himself  together,  apparently 
from  deep  abstraction. 

"Who?" 

"  Your  heroine." 

"  I  don't  know.  Ideas  of  beauty  differ  so  rad- 
ically." 

He  bent  again  over  the  table.  Nancy  selected  a 
long  crimson  thread. 

"  Does  she  live  in  my  house?  " 

"Yes;  you  don't  mind?" 

"  No,  not  if  she's  not  that  bold  jumping  woman 
you  described  yesterday." 

"  She's  not." 

"  I  hate  to  disturb  you ;  but  naturally  I  feel  in- 
terested —  in  a  girl  that  lives  here." 

"Yes?" 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  color  her  eyes 
are  and  what  kind  of  hair  she  has,  and  if  she's 
tall?" 

Whitman  looked  up  and  met  the  wistful  eagerness 
of  Nancy's  eyes. 

"  They're  gray,"  he  said,  making  a  sudden  deci- 
sion, "  hazel  gray.  Her  hair  is  black,  black  as  the 
black  bird's  wing;  and  around  her  white  neck  and 
around  her  little  white  ears  it  looks  blacker  still." 

"  I  suppose  she's  very  tall,"  ventured  Nancy, 
threading  her  needle  with  a  long  orange  thread. 

"  Not  very.  She's  small  and  piquant,  quick  in 
her  motions  like  a  bird.  If  she  should  peep  into  this 
summer  house  this  minute  you  might  easily  take  her 


54  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

for  a  wood  pecker,  with  her  bright  eyes,  black  head 
and  top  knot  of  scarlet  ribbon." 

"Does  she  wear  a  red  ribbon?"  Nancy's  hand 
strayed  to  her  own  dark  hair.  "  These  are  berries, 
rowan  berries  from  the  tree  across  the  road." 

The  author  courageously  faced  his  mistake. 
"  This  girl  wears  a  red  ribbon,"  he  said. 

He  did  not  pretend  to  resume  his  writing;  but,  his 
arms  locked  on  the  table  before  him,  he  leaned  for- 
ward watching  Nancy  sew. 

"  Would  you  mind,"  she  said,  after  another  pause, 
"  telling  me  a  little  about  the  hero  ?  I  feel  interested 
on  account  of  the  girl  living  in  my  house,  you  see." 

"  My  hero  is  a  little  shadowy,"  he  confessed ;  "  I 
can't  seem  to  see  him  myself.  I  may  sketch  from 
life  —  though  I  don't  allow  myself  to  do  that  very 
often  —  and  give  the  heroine  the  best  man  I  know." 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  from  her 
work. 

"  My  chum,  Jim  Radding,"  he  said,  with  a  reluc- 
tance he  could  not  quite  fathom  for  making  Radding 
the  hero. 

"  What  color  hair  has  he?  " 

Whitman  laughed.  "  Rad  isn't  much  on  hair. 
It's,  let  me  see,  brown,  a  little  thin,  but  he  brushes 
it  over  the  bald  spots." 

"  Not  bright  like  yours,  then?  " 

Again  the  young  man  laughed.  "  No,  fortu- 
nately for  his  own  peace,  he's  not  cursed  with  a  head 
like  a  bon-fire." 

"  I  think  red  hair  is  cheerful,"  Nancy  said  judi- 


55 

cially.  "  I  always  notice  that  when  any  one  with 
red  hair  appears,  interesting  things  begin  to 
happen." 

"  Do  you  ? "  he  glowed.  "  Well,  interesting 
things  begin  to  happen  when  Rad  comes,  too,  for 
he's  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  You  might  not 
think  so  to  look  at  him;  his  eyes  are  sad  and  his 
mouth  droops  at  the  corners  a  little  when  he's  quiet, 
but  it  turns  up  into  the  funniest,  driest  kind  of  smile 
when  he  begins  to  talk.  You'd  like  Rad,  there's  no 
doubt  about  it." 

"  Umph,  umph,"  she  said  dubiously.  "  Umph, 
umph,  but  I  never  did  like  a  drooping  mouth ;  they're 
like  flags  on  a  still  day." 

The  young  man's  own  lips  curved  into  a  smile  at 
this  announcement,  so  gay,  so  joyous  that  she  might 
well  have  likened  it  to  a  flag  in  the  wind. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  bargained,  "  as  long  as  I've  put 
your  house  into  my  story,  I  don't  know  why  you 
shouldn't  order  a  hero  to  suit  yourself.  What  kind 
of  man  do  you  prefer?  " 

She  considered  his  offer  gravely,  her  eyes  drifting 
from  her  work  to  the  face  across  the  table.  Then 
she  asked : 

"  Could  you  make  a  hero  who  would  take  the 
lonesomeness  out  of  the  world?" 

"  Yes,  I  can  make  that  kind  of  man,"  was  the 
eager  promise. 

"  Out  of  everything?  "  Her  voice  was  wistful, 
as  if  warning  him  he  might  be  promising  more  than 
he  would  find  it  easy  to  perform. 


56  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Out  of  everything  —  for  the  girl  who  loved 
him." 

"Out  of  moonlight  nights  in  this  great  empty 
garden  ?  " 

"  Yes,  even  out  of  moonlight  nights  in  Venice." 

"  Out  of  Sunday  afternoons,  when  all  the  world 
is  asleep  and  the  lake  shines  blue  for  miles  and 
miles?" 

"  Yes,  and  out  of  long  city  streets,  when  the  rain 
comes  down,  and  the  lights  of  the  boulevard  shine 
through  the  mist." 

"  Even  out  of  frosty  nights,  when  one  looks  out 
of  the  long  window  up,  up  into  the  sky  full  of  stars, 
and  then  back  into  a  great  long  room,  with  nobody 
there  but  just  Aunt,  asleep  by  the  Franklin  stove?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Whitman  boldly,  "  for  the  man  would 
be  there  beside  her,  looking  up  into  the  stars,  too, 
and  they'd  stand  close  to  the  window  so  that  the  cur- 
tain would  fall  behind  them,  and  his  arm  would  go 
round  her  waist,  and  her  head  would  find  its  place 
on  his  shoulder,  and  they'd  discover  that  the  whole 
wide  universe  isn't  lonely  to  lovers  — " 

"  Lovers !  "  exclaimed  Nancy.  "  Is  your  hero  go- 
ing to  fall  in  love  after  all?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  author  affirmed  positively.  "  Yes,  he 
is.  I'm  not  sure  but  he  is  going  to  fall  madly  in 
love." 

"What's  it  like  to  be  madly  in  love?"  asked 
Nancy  with  frank  curiosity.  "  How  does  it  differ 
from  friendship?  " 

"There's  as  much  difference  between  love  and 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  57 

friendship,"  began  the  young  man,  without  hesita- 
tion, "  as  there  is  between  the  waters  of  a  fountain, 
sparkling,  leaping,  breaking  in  the  air,  and  rain 
water  standing  in  a  barrel." 

"  That's  a  very  vivid  contrast,"  Nancy  decided 
after  a  moment's  consideration.  "  Could  you  tell 
me  anything  more  about  love  ?  You  see,  Aunt  Rox- 
ana  holding  the  views  she  does,  it  is  the  only  chance 
I'm  ever  likely  to  have  to  learn.  ...  Is  there  any 
more  to  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  Whitman  asserted,  losing  himself  in 
thought  for  a  few  minutes  before  speaking,  as  if  to 
gather  his  material.  "  There's  a  good  deal  more  to 
it.  It's  funny,  love  is;  it  upsets  all  the  accepted 
standards." 

"How?" 

"  Well,  it  upsets  all  one  ever  learned  about  space, 
at  least  as  I  see  it." 

"  For  instance?  " 

"  For  instance,  a  mile  isn't  always  the  same 
length." 

"Really?" 

"  No.  When  it  stands  between  a  man  and  the 
girl  he  loves,  it's  much  longer  than  when  it  lies 
between  the  man  and  even  his  very  best  friend." 

"  That's  very  curious,"  mused  Nancy. 

"  Love  does  funnier  things  than  that  to  Time," 
moralized  the  instructor,  in  a  kind  of  growing  sur- 
prise at  the  discoveries  he  was  making. 

"  What  does  Love  do  to  Time?  " 

"  The  very  same  thing  it  does  to  space  —  it  over- 


58  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

throws  all  the  old  gauges.  Sixty  minutes  spent  with 
even  the  best  of  friends  is  about  ten  times  longer 
than  sixty  minutes  spent  with  the  girl  one's  been 
longing  to  see  since  day  break." 

"  How  do  you  know  all  these  things  ?  "  asked 
Nancy  suddenly. 

"  How  do  I  know  them  ?  Why,  why  " —  the 
young  man  flushed  and  hesitated.  "  Why,  I  don't 
know  how  I  know  them.  I  just  dug  them  out  of  my 
inner  consciousness  somewhere,  I  suppose.  I  didn't 
know  I  had  such  knowledge  myself  —  an  hour  ago." 

"  An  hour  ago !  "  cried  Nancy ;  and  she  rose  to  her 
feet  in  alarm.  "  Aunt  Roxana  was  to  be  back  from 
sewing  circle  at  four.  She  will  be  looking  for  me. 
It  must  be  four  now."  She  peeped  up  at  the  sky, 
through  the  trees  that  screened  them  from  the  house. 

Whitman  looked  at  his  watch.  "By  Jove!"  he 
cried.  "It's  five!" 

"  Five !  "  gasped  Nancy,  gathering  up  her  needle- 
work. "  Five !  are  you  sure,  Mr. — " 

"  Caleb  Whitman,"  he  supplied. 

"  Five !  "  she  said  again ;  and  then  she  laughed  in 
surprise.  "Well,  then,  Mr.  Caleb  Whitman,  it's 
not  only  with  lovers  that  time  runs  fast,  is  it?  for 
these  hours  have  run  fast  just  for  us." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"T  PRESUME,"  began  Captain  Luffkin  in  a  con- 

•*•  fidential  rumble,  addressing  Caleb  Whitman, 
"  that  a  young  feller  like  you  knows  all  there's  to 
know  about  girls." 

"  It's  the  last  claim  I  should  make  for  myself," 
his  companion  deprecated,  smilingly. 

The  Captain  ruminated,  his  hand  on  the  tiller,  his 
eyes  straying  from  the  face  of  his  passenger  to  the 
mark  on  the  shore  toward  which  he  automatically 
steered. 

"  Knowed  no  end  of  'em,  I  presume,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  a  pause. 

"  Considerably  fewer  than  that,"  Whitman  cor- 
rected. 

The  Captain  did  not  heed  the  denial.  "  What  I'd 
like  to  know,"  he  began  again,  puckering  his  brow 
in  a  troubled  frown,  "  is  what  makes  'em  cry." 

"Cry!     Do  girls  cry?" 

"  One  I  know  does,"  the  Captain  confided,  lower- 
ing his  voice  and  looking  uneasily  over  the  water  as 
if  he  would  guard  his  confidence  even  from  the  gulls. 
"  Cries  her  pretty  eyes  out,"  he  added  for  good 
measure. 

'  Tell  me  something  about  her."  Whitman's 
manner,  in  spite  of  himself,  was  indifferent;  for  his 

59 


60  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

thoughts  were  far  from  the  good  captain  that  after- 
noon, circling  instead  about  a  leafy  nook  and  a  dark 
haired  girl,  with  a  tempting  mouth  and  a  piquant 
chin,  whom  with  stern  self  denial  he  had  not  sought 
for  three  interminable  days. 

"  Well,"  the  Captain  began  again,  "  I  don't  want 
to  tell  tales,  but  I  suspect  I'm  responsible  for  one 
girl's  tears." 

"  Really ! "  There  was  something  so  absurd  in 
the  prospect  of  sentimental  confidences  from  the 
gruff  old  captain,  that  Whitman  found  it  hard  not 
to  smile.  And  yet  one  look  into  the  weather-beaten 
face  and  honest  eyes  opposite,  sobered  him.  There 
was  a  natural  dignity  in  the  ferryman's  manner  that 
made  mockery  impossible. 

"  You  see,"  the  Captain  continued,  "  I'm  one  of 
this  girl's  few  friends,  having  knowed  her  since  she 
was  about  so  high."  (At  this  point,  the  Captain 
measured  off  about  six  inches.)  "  Well,  some  time 
back,  I  seed  she  was  low  in  her  mind,  and  well  she 
might  be,  for  this  town  ain't  what  it  should  be  for 
young  folks  these  days.  So  one  day  when  she  come 
to  me  and  asked  if  she  could  borrow  my  name,  re- 
ceiving a  few  letters  addressed  to  Luff  kin  — " 

There  was  no  question  of  the  passenger's  interest 
now.  "  Yes,"  he  prompted  eagerly. 

"  I  was  willing  enough,"  the  Captain  went  on, 
"  for  I  knowed  how  strict  she  was  held  down  and 
hedged  in,  and  how  curious  the  postmaster  was. 
So,  sez  I,  '  Sure,  get  all  the  mail  you  want ' ;  and  I 
give  her  a  key  to  my  box,  No.  37." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  61 

"Yes;  and  then?" 

"  Well,  her  spirits  come  up,  and  nobody  could  be 
gladder  than  I  was.  I  saw  she  had  something  to  in- 
terest her,  and,  sez  I,  *  That's  good.'  But  suddenly 
the  wind  shifted  and  another  spell  of  bad  weather 
set  in." 

"  Since  when  ?  "  The  young  man's  hand  trem- 
bled as  he  rolled  one  of  the  cigarettes  the  Captain 
scorned. 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  just  when  the  trouble  set  in, 
because  I  ain't  seen  her  until  to-day." 

"To-day?" 

"  She  crossed  with  me  last  trip.  I  presume  she's 
waiting  on  the  other  side  now  to  be  fetched  back. 
She  never  lifted  her  pretty  head  from  her  arm  all 
the  way  over." 

"  Didn't  she !  "  The  sole  passenger's  voice  was 
husky  with  emotion.  He  looked  straight  out  to  sea, 
wondering  if  Nancy's  fall  in  spirits  could  possibly 
be  coincident  with  the  neglect  his  conscience  had 
dictated. 

"  Now,"  asked  the  Captain,  loosening  the  main 
sheet  from  the  cleat,  preparatory  to  going  about,  "  to 
come  back  to  where  we  started,  what  makes  her 
cry?" 

"  What's  your  theory?  "  Whitman  forced  himself 
to  say,  overcoming  the  temptation  to  tell  the  Captain 
what  he  knew  of  Nancy. 

"  I  suspect  a  man,"  said  the  Captain  with  energy. 

"A  man?" 

"  Yes ;  you  know  we've  an  army  post  some  ten 


62  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

miles  from  here,  and  I've  been  wondering  if  my  lit- 
tle girl  hadn't  gotten  in  with  one  of  them  yellow 
jackets.  I've  had  several  things  to  make  me  think 
that  might  be  so,  and  that  he  ain't  treating  her  right. 
Why  else  would  she  want  to  get  letters  unbeknownst 
to  those  that  has  her  in  charge  ?  " 

"  She  might  be  attempting  some  business  venture," 
Whitman  suggested,  "  writing  for  a  magazine,  sell- 
ing drawings,  something  of  that  kind.  Has  she  lit- 
erary ambitions  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  ever  heard  of.  It  strikes  me  natur' 
made  her  too  pretty  to  be  a  lady  writer." 

"  Does  she  lack  for  money?  " 

The  Captain  considered  the  possibilities  suggested 
by  this  question.  "  It  don't  seem  likely,"  he  said. 
"  Old  Miss  Lowell  is  reputed  well  to  do." 

He  brought  the  ferry  about  and  made  a  neat  land- 
ing at  the  port  called  Fair  View,  where  a  group  of 
country  folk  waited.  A  quick  glance  showed  Whit- 
man that  Nancy  was  not  among  them;  but  just  as 
the  Captain  cast  off  for  the  return  voyage,  she  ran 
breathlessly  down  the  pier. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Captain,  sighting  her  at  the  same 
moment  that  Whitman  did.  "  Here's  my  girl.  I 
was  afraid  she  wasn't  coming."  And  he  held  the 
bobbing  cat  boat  to  the  pier  with  one  hairy  hand 
while  Nancy  clambered  aboard. 

"  I  was  delayed,"  she  explained  confusedly,  seat- 
ing herself  between  two  substantial  village  women. 

If  she  saw  Caleb  Whitman,  she  made  no  sign  of 
recognition,  unless  a  shy  flutter  of  her  eyelids  in 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  63 

his  direction,  and  a  cheek  that  grew  a  little  rosier 
could  be  called  an  acknowledgment  of  their  former 
meetings. 

The  man  who  had  denied  himself  a  sight  of  her 
for  three  long  days  let  his  eyes  rest  hungrily  on  the 
little  figure  squeezed  between  the  village  women. 
The  Captain  was  right.  She  had  been  crying. 
Could  it  be,  Whitman  wondered,  that  his  avoidance 
accounted  for  the  change.  The  thought  was  so  dis- 
turbing, so  deliciously  disturbing,  that  he  refrained 
with  difficulty  from  forcibly  removing  the  stout  pro- 
tectors on  either  side  of  Nancy  and  taking  his  place 
beside  her. 

Suddenly,  as  if  he  read  Whitman's  thoughts,  the 
good  old  Captain  spoke.  "  Nancy,"  he  said, 
"  would  you  mind  setting  on  this  side  ?  The  boat 
don't  ride  right." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  demurely,  as  the  cat  boat 
stole  steadily  across  the  bay  in  the  light  summer 
wind.  "  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  somebody  a  lit- 
tle heavier,  Captain?"  she  teased;  and  her  glance 
suggested  a  fat  woman  with  a  basket. 

"  You're  just  the  right  weight,"  the  Captain  af- 
firmed shamelessly;  and  he  made  room  for  her  be- 
tween Whitman  and  himself.  "  Miss  Rose,"  he 
said  formally,  when  the  change  had  been  made,  "  let 
me  make  you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Whitman.  He's 
summering  with  me.  Mr.  Whitman,  let  me  make 
you  acquainted  with  Miss  Rose.  She  lives  down 
the  road  about  a  mile  from  the  village,  in  a  house 
you  may  have  noticed,  built  before  the  war.  A 


64  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

British  ball  took  off  part  of  the  roof,  didn't  it, 
Nancy?" 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  nodded  listlessly. 

"  I've  seen  the  house,"  Whitman  managed  to  say. 
"I  don't  wonder  the  British  singled  it  out  I've 
done  the  same  thing  myself." 

"  Did  you  like  it  ?  "  Nancy  asked. 

Whitman's  answer  was  prompt.  "  So  much  that 
I  haven't  been  able  to  forget  it  for  the  past  three 
days." 

Nancy  did  not  answer  but  leaned  over  the  gun- 
wale, letting  one  small  hand  drag  in  the  water. 
Whitman  leaned  towards  her.  "  Nancy,"  he  whis- 
pered under  his  breath,  "is  something  wrong? 
What's  the  matter?  Won't  you  tell  me?  Don't 
you  know  I  want  to  help  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  The  luminous  eyes  that  had  been 
fixed  on  the  dancing  water  searched  his  face. 

"  I  do,  indeed.     You  must  know  that." 

"Then  where  have  you  been?" 

The  words  so  innocently  uttered,  accompanied  by 
a  glance  from  soft  gray  eyes  where  tears  still  lurked, 
gave  Whitman  a  thrill  of  joy.  "  Why,  Nancy,"  he 
whispered  ardently,  "you  yourself  told  me  I  was 
not  to  come." 

"  I  hadn't  finished  telling  you  so,"  said  Nancy 
tremulously. 

"  Hadn't  you  ?  "  The  man's  voice  was  very  ten- 
der. "  I've  only  stayed  away  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
I  thought  about  you  every  hour  of  the  day.  I've 
been  trying  to  find  some  excuse  to  appear  openly. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  65 

Isn't  there  some  way  I  can  meet  you  with  your  aunt's 
consent?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  yet.  Not  unless  I 
can  bring  the  Great  Happiness  to  pass." 

"The  Great  Happiness?"  he  questioned. 

"  Yes."  She  sighed.  "  It  seems  a  long  way  off 
to-day." 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  what  you  mean?  " 

"  No.  I  can  tell  no  one.  It's  a  secret.  But  once 
it  comes,  everything  will  change."  She  lifted  her 
eyes  to  the  sky  line,  like  a  prophet  who  sees  a  vision. 

"  Is  the  Great  Happiness  so  much  to  you, 
Nancy?"  Whitman  murmured,  struck  by  the  so- 
lemnity of  her  manner. 

"  It's  everything,"  she  said  unsmilingly,  turning 
her  earnest  eyes  to  his.  "  It's  what  I  live  for. 
When  I  think  it  will  never  come,  my  heart  is  like 
a  stone.  When  I  think  it  will  come  —  and  it  must, 
oh,  it  must  —  then  my  heart  is  like  thistledown." 

"  Nancy,"  Whitman  said,  "  surely  you  will  let 
me  help  you  to  bring  your  joy  to  pass.  Have  you 
any  other  friend  to  whom  to  turn  ?  " 

"  One  other,"  was  the  unexpected  answer. 

"The  Captain?" 

"  No,  not  the  Captain." 

"  Tell  me  who  it  is."  He  did  not  know  that  the 
emotion  that  welled  in  his  breast  was  jealousy. 

"  I  can't." 

"Is  it  a  man?" 

"  Yes,  it's  a  man.  The  best  man  in  the  world,  I 
fancy." 


66  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Nancy,  are  you  joking?  " 

"  No,  just  telling  the  truth." 

Captain  Luffkin's  supposition  of  a  soldier  at  the 
post,  flashed  across  Whitman's  mind.  "  Does  he 
live  near  here?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Would  you  call  New  York  near?  " 

"  He  lives  in  New  York,  then?  " 

"  Yes." 

"A  man  who  lives  in  New  York,  who  would  do 
more  for  you  than  I  would." 

"  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  It  amounted  to  the  same  thing."  Whitman 
stared  gloomily  across  the  boat,  scowling  uncon- 
sciously at  the  row  of  passengers  opposite.  "  What's 
his  name  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  choose  to  tell  me." 

"  I  mean  what  I  say."  Nancy  was  dimpling. 
"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Well,"  he  began  after  a  moment's  stormy 
thought,  "  it's  not  my  affair,  but  I  have  your  welfare 
at  heart,  Miss  Rose  "  (Nancy  started  in  surprise  at 
the  formality  of  his  address),  "  and  so  I  can't  help 
warning  you  against  confiding  in  strange  men.  I 
hope  you  understand  the  spirit  in  which  I  say 
this." 

"  What  spirit  is  it  ?  "  Nancy  asked  innocently. 

Caleb  Whitman  hesitated,  checked  for  a  moment 
in  his  moralizing.  Then  he  said  with  conviction, 
"  It's  the  spirit  of  a  big  brother." 

"  Oh,"  said  Nancy. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  67 

"  You're  an  inexperienced  girl,"  Whitman  went 
on. 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  And  so  I'm  going  to  be  very  bold  indeed,  and 
ask  you  a  few  questions,  which  of  course  you  need 
not  answer." 

"Of  course  not,"  Nancy  disconcertingly  agreed. 

"  And  yet  —  I  hope  you  will  answer." 

"  What's  the  first  question?  " 

"  Where  did  you  meet  this  man  from  New 
York?" 

"  I've  never  really  met  him." 

"  Never  really  met  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  how  can  you  say  that  you  know  him?  " 

"  I  know  him  from  his  letters  —  and  his  presents." 

"  Nancy !  "  Caleb  Whitman  cried  aghast ;  and 
then  he  added  with  conviction,  "  He's  a  scoundrel. 
New  York  is  full  of  them.  Did  he  see  you  some- 
where and  force  a  correspondence  upon  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  Nancy  weighed  the  question.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  would  say  I  forced  it  on  him,"  she  said. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Nancy,  tell  me  what  you 
mean.  Speak  low,  one  of  those  women  opposite 
is  trying  to  hear  what  we  are  saying." 

"  I  wrote  to  him  first.  He  answered  —  very 
kindly.  I  sent  him  a  present.  He  sent  me  two." 

"  Nancy  Rose,  are  you  teasing  me?  " 

"  I'm  answering  your  question." 

Whitman  was  silent  a  moment,  racked  by  a 
thousand  fears.  He  forced  his  lips  to  ask  one 


68  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

more  question.  "What  kind  of  a  man  is  your 
friend?" 

"  He's  very  old,"  said  Nancy,  turning  her  candid 
eyes  to  his ;  "  that's  the  only  thing  I'd  like  to  change 
about  him." 

"  Old ! "  The  young  man  by  her  side  gave  a 
start  of  joyful  recognition.  He  had  forgotten  the 
past  shadowy  acquaintance  with  Nancy  in  the  in- 
toxication of  actual  meeting.  "Old,  Nancy?"  his 
voice  shook  with  eagerness. 

"  Yes,  old  and  fat,  with  chin  whiskers,  a  white 
waistcoat  and  a  thick  watch  chain.  Old  and  kind. 
Don't  you  think  it's  safe  to  trust  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Whitman  softly.  "  Yes,  trust  him, 
Nancy.  But  promise  me  one  thing." 

"Well?" 

"  Don't  make  any  other  friend  by  correspond- 
ence." 

"  I  won't,"  she-  promised  sweetly.  And  the  cat 
boat  having  crept  to  the  pier  at  Deep  Harbor,  she 
followed  in  the  wake  of  the  other  passengers,  clam- 
bered out  the  boat  and  disappeared  down  the  street. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Captain  as  he  and  Whitman 
were  left  alone,  "wasn't  I  right?  Hadn't  she 
been  crying?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  young  man  admitted. 

"  What  I  want  to  know,"  the  Captain  continued, 
"  is  who's  making  her  cry." 

"  You  think  it's  a  person  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  it  is.  Moreover,  I  think  I've  spotted 
him." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  69 

For  a  moment  Whitman  feared  the  Captain's 
glance,  bent  upon  himself,  was  accusing.  Then  the 
ferryman  asked :  "  See  any  one  loitering  on  the 
bank  across  the  water  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I  did.  And  he  was  one  of  them  yellow 
jackets.  As  soon  as  he  sighted  the  ferry  he  disap- 
peared into  the  trees.  Notice  the  little  girl  was  late 
in  getting  aboard?  " 

Unwillingly  Whitman  was  forced  to  admit  that 
Nancy  had  been  late,  and  flustered  in  her  manner. 

"  Well,"  the  Captain  finished  grimly,  "  I'll  bet  you 
dollars  to  doughnuts  that  the  yellow  jacket  has 
coaxed  her  over  there  to  meet  him,  and  what's  more 
that  it's  not  the  first  time  he's  done  it." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"\T7ELL,"  said  the  Captain  with  heavy  jocu- 
^  *     larity,  extending  half  a  dozen  letters  to  his 
boarder,  "  when  you  get  done  reading  that  batch  of 
mail,  you  might  give  it  to  me  for  ballast." 

From  his  seat  on  the  Captain's  lawn  Whitman 
smiled,  and  taking  out  his  knife  he  slit  open  the  en- 
velopes one  by  one.  The  editor-in-chief  assured 
him  everything  was  going  well  at  the  office.  Rad- 
ding  chid  him  for  his  silence  and  pretended  to  find 
it  ominous.  A  real  estate  broker  wanted  to  sell 
him  some  land.  A  man  who  owed  him  money  asked 
for  more.  An  acquaintance  announced  his  mar- 
riage. 

To  Whitman  mail  had  never  been  very  interest- 
ing. He  had  wondered  sometimes  at  other  men's 
eagerness  for  letters.  With  a  yawn  he  opened  the 
last  envelope.  Then  he  started,  and  by  the  northern 
twilight  he  read  twice  over  the  words  that  were 
written  in  a  familiar  hand  on  cross-barred  stationery. 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 
"  Dear  Editor  of  Better  Every  Week: 

"  In  one  of  your  kind  and  beautiful  letters,  you 
told  me  that  if  you  ever  could  be  of  service,  I 
was  to  call  upon  you.     I  am  sure  that  you  meant 
70 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  71 

what  you  said,  and  so  I  am  turning  to  you  for  help 
once  more.  Do  you  think  there  is  any  one  in 
New  York  who  would  be  willing  to  give  money 
for  the  following  articles  (they  are  my  very 
own.  I  have  the  right  to  sell  them)  : 

"  One  bridal  veil  of  real  lace,  one  hundred 
years  old. 

"  One  cameo  pin;  head  of  cherub. 

"One  bracelet;  chased  gold.     (Clasp  broken.) 

"  One  man's  watch ;  hunting  case ;  gold  face ; 
won't  go  any  more,  but  might  be  repaired. 

"  One  pink  coral  necklace.  (I  hate  to  sell  this ; 
it's  perfectly  beautiful.) 

"If  you  think  there  is  a  chance  of  getting 
money  for  any  of  these  things,  I  will  send  them 
to  you  at  once.  I  must  have  fifty  dollars,  and  I 
must  have  it  soon. 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  HENRY  B.  LUFFKIN." 

As  usual,  the  writer  had  not  dated  the  letter,  but 
Whitman  made  out  from  the  postmark  that  it  had 
reached  New  York  some  days  ago.  On  the  margin 
his  stenographer,  Smith,  had  written :  "  This  let- 
ter has  been  to  every  one  on  the  staff  but  you.  No 
one  seems  to  know  anything  about  the  writer." 
Whitman  winced.  He  did  not  fancy  Nancy's  let- 
ters making  the  rounds  of  the  office.  A  moment 
after,  he  left  the  Captain  beneath  the  trees,  engaged 
in  mending  a  net,  and  began  to  tramp  up  and  down 
the  bluff,  looking  out  over  the  waters  as  if  the  even- 


72  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

ing  breeze  that  rippled  their  wide  expanse  might 
waft  an  idea  to  him  for  helping  Nancy. 

At  last  he  went  into  the  cottage,  and  seating  him- 
self beneath  the  oil  lamp,  he  drew  out  paper  and  ink 
and  wrote  his  friend. 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y., 

"Aug.  21,  191 — 
"  Dear  Rad : 

"  I  have  become  interested  in  helping  Henry 
Luffkin  dispose  of  some  heirlooms.  I  can't  buy 
them  myself  very  well,  and  I  want  you  to  pretend 
to  be  a  dealer  in  antiques  and  buy  them  for  me. 
Write  this  letter  for  me,  Rad,  and  write  it  at 
once,  enclosing  fifty  dollars  in  currency.  Here's 
my  check  for  the  amount.  '  Henry  Luffkin. 
Dear  Sir:  The  Editor  of  Better  Every  Week 
has  told  me  that  you  want  to  dispose  of  some  old 
lace  and  pieces  of  jewelry,  of  which  he  has  given 
me  a  description.  I  am  a  collector  of  antiques 
and  I  am  willing  to  pay  fifty  dollars  for  the  lace, 
the  bracelet,  the  watch  and  the  cameo.  I  am  not 
interested  in  coral.  You  may  send  your  goods  to 
the  following  address.'  Then  sign  your  own 
name,  Rad,  and  give  your  address. 

"  I  find  this  is  an  ideal  spot  for  my  vacation. 
You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  am  making  good 
progress  with  my  novel,  although  it  has  taken  a 
more  romantic  turn  that  I  had  planned. 

"  Yours, 
"  CALEY." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  73 

The  letter  finished,  Whitman  turned  to  the  Cap- 
tain, who  was  seated  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
lost  in  his  weekly  paper. 

"  Captain,"  he  began,  "  I  have  been  thinking  about 
what  you  told  me  concerning  Miss  Rose  and  her 
mail." 

The  Captain  looked  furtively  toward  the  kitchen, 
where  Sister  Abby  washed  the  evening  dishes,  and 
Whitman  lowered  his  voice. 

"If  you  get  the  mail  and  give  her  the  letters/'  he 
continued,  "  you  can  surely  tell  the  nature  of  her 
correspondence." 

The  Captain  shook  his  head.  "  No,  I  can't,"  he 
said.  "  I  give  her  an  extra  key  to  the  box.  She 
gets  there  first  and  takes  what's  coming  to  her  and 
leaves  me  the  rest." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  anything  that  made  you  sus- 
picious?" Whitman  inquired. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Captain,  "  a  check  come  once  I 
didn't  like  the  looks  of;  but  she  said  it  was  prize 
money  she'd  got  in  some  kind  of  a  contest,  so  I  en- 
dorsed it  and  said  nothing." 

"  She's  an  interesting  girl.  I  wish  I  might  get 
better  acquainted  with  her."  Whitman  hoped  his 
manner  was  casual. 

"  I  wish  you  might,"  said  the  Captain.  "  I've 
kind  of  had  it  in  mind  from  the  first.  I  done  what 
I  could  for  you  the  other  day  in  the  boat.  Don't 
know  as  you  seen  through  it  or  not." 

Whitman  repressed  a  smile.  "  How  can  I  see 
more  of  her?  "  he  asked. 


74  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  That's  hard  to  say.  She  don't  cross  with  me 
more  than  once  or  twice  a  month.  She  goes  to 
church  Sundays, 'but  her  aunt's  always  with  her. 
Sometimes  she  sets  in  the  graveyard  with  her  sew- 
ing." 

"The  graveyard?" 

"  Yes.  Haven't  you  passed  it  out  on  the  wagon 
road  near  her  place  ?  It's  pleasant  there ;  quiet  and 
shady,  and  makes  a  change  from  the  garden.  You 
ought  to  go  out  and  see  the  monuments.  Lots  of 
soldiers  buried  there,  that  fell  in  1812.  Summer 
folks  are  always  interested  in  the  old  stones,  though 
the  new  ones  are  a  sight  handsomer." 

"  A  graveyard  seems  a  strange  place  for  a  young 
girl  to  sit,"  Whitman  mused. 

"  Well,  it's  one  of  the  few  places  her  aunt  ap- 
proves," the  Captain  chuckled,  one  eye  on  the  paper ; 
"  and  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  a  pretty  girl  is 
mighty  safe  in  the  company  of  dead  generals  and 
admirals  who,  even  if  they  come  to  life,  would  be 
kin  to  her." 

Whitman  smiled  absently  at  the  Captain's  jocu- 
larity. "  I'll  go  to  town  and  post  this  letter,"  he 
said.  "  I  want  to  get  it  off  to-night." 

On  his  walk  to  the  village,  Caleb  Whitman  turned 
Nancy's  latest  letter  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  try- 
ing to  reconcile  his  conception  of  her  character  with 
her  eager,  insatiable  desire  for  money.  Sometimes 
he  told  himself  that  the  desire  sprang  merely  from 
the  wish  to  gratify  some  girlish  fancy.  Again  he 
was  half  convinced  that  she  was  planning  to  run 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  75 

away,  to  escape  forever  the  tedium  of  life  in  the 
garden ;  but  her  own  words  echoed  in  his  heart,  over- 
turning his  fears.  "  I  don't  want  to  escape,"  she 
had  said.  "  I  want  to  open  the  gate  and  let  the 
world  in."  Was  she  in  debt?  The  thought  was 
absurd.  With  her  comfortable  home,  her  guarded, 
restricted  circuit,  she  had  small  temptation  and  lit- 
tle opportunity  to  incur  obligations. 

"  I  give  it  up,"  said  Whitman  to  himself,  at  last. 
"  All  I  know  is  that  I  want  for  you  what  you  want 
for  yourself,  Nancy  Rose,  and  that  I'll  give  it  to 
you,  if  it  lies  in  my  power  to  do  so." 

"Want  a  lift?" 

Whitman  started,  and  looked  up  through  the  dusk 
to  see  the  covered  van  of  the  army  post  which  he 
had  learned  to  call  a  "  daugherty."  A  young  man 
in  olive  drab  uniform  on  the  front  seat  had  drawn 
four  mules  to  a  standstill  and  was  good-naturedly 
offering  the  pedestrian  a  seat. 

"  Thank  you,"  Whitman  answered,  "  but  I'm  only 
going  to  the  village  to  post  this  letter." 

"  Want  me  to  take  it  to  Jackson  ?  "  the  soldier 
asked  obligingly.  "  It  will  make  better  time." 

Whitman  handed  the  letter  over  the  high  wheel. 
"  That's  awfully  good  of  you."  Then  he  asked, 
before  the  soldier  had  started  the  mules  on  their 
way:  "  Haven't  we  met  before,  somewhere?  " 

The  man  in  uniform,  who  was  a  dashing,  well- 
built  fellow,  looked  uneasily  at  Caleb  Whitman's 
upturned  face,  and  muttered,  "  I  think  not."  Then, 


76  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

without  another  word,  he  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket, 
cut  the  mules  lightly  with  his  whip  and  drove  on  his 
way. 

Lost  in  thought,  Caleb  Whitman  looked  after  the 
van  for  a  long  moment.  "  I  have  seen  you,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  though  I  can't  tell  where,  for  the  life 
of  me."  And  he  recalled  again  the  ruddy  face,  the 
gay,  dark  eyes,  the  splendid  shoulders  of  the  man  in 
the  daugherty.  "  I  don't  know  so  many  army  peo- 
ple that  I  ought  to  confuse  them,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  and  that  particular  chap  is  too  good  looking 
to  be  easily  forgotten.  He  didn't  fancy  my  claim- 
ing acquaintance,  however.  High  spirited  chap," 
Whitman  concluded.  "  I  don't  wonder  the  '  yellow 
jackets/  as  the  Captain  calls  them,  play  havoc  with 
the  girls,  if  they're  all  as  good  looking  as  he." 

His  excuse  for  the  trip  to  the  village  gone,  he  re- 
traced his  way  back  to  the  cottage,  trying  idly  to 
recall  the  identity  of  the  man  who  drove  the  daugh- 
erty. "  I  have  it,"  he  said  aloud,  just  as  he  reached 
the  cottage  door.  "  You're  Sergeant  Wilson,  the 
chap  I  ate  supper  with  the  night  I  got  to  Jackson." 


CHAPTER  IX 

I  sell  you  a  ticket  for  the  box  sociable, 
Mr.  Whitman?"  Sister  Abby's  lack  lustre 
eyes  shone  with  something  akin  to  excitement  as  she 
reached  into  the  pocket  of  her  apron  and  extended 
a  bit  of  cardboard. 

"A  box  sociable,  Miss  Abby?  I  don't  believe  I 
know  what  you  mean;  but  you  can  sell  me  a  ticket 
to  anything  you'll  recommend." 

The  afternoon  was  fair,  the  sun  shone  on  the 
sparkling  expanse  of  the  lake  below  the  bluffs,  the 
summer  wind  was  fresh  and  sweet,  the  morning's 
work  on  the  novel  had  gone  well :  Caleb  Whitman, 
on  his  way  out  of  the  Captain's  gate,  listened  to  Miss 
Abby's  plea  with  good-humored  tolerance. 

"  The  money's  for  a  new  carpet  for  the  minister's 
study,"  Abby  explained  further.  "  The  tickets  are 
ten  cents  each.  If  you  draw  a  good  box,  you'll  not 
think  they're  dear." 

Whitman  produced  a  dime  with  cheerful  alacrity. 
"  But,  Miss  Abby,"  he  asked,  "  I  don't  know  yet 
what  I'm  in  for.  Why  do  I  draw  a  box  and  what 
do  I  do  with  it  when  I  get  it  ?  " 

Sister  Abby  stared  at  him.  "  Don't  you  know 
what  a  box  sociable  is,  and  you  living  in  New  York 
City?" 

"  No,"  the  young  man  confessed  with  becoming 
77 


78  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

humility,  "they  have  almost  everything  in  New 
York,  to  be  sure,  but  I  don't  believe  I  ever  went  to 
a  box  sociable." 

"Well,  they're  grand,"  Sister  Abby  sighed  in 
pleasant  retrospection.  "We  give  one  every  year 
on  somebody's  lawn.  There's  long  tables  under  the 
trees,  and  lanterns  strung  everywhere.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  pretty  it  looks.  Then  every  girl  and 
woman  in  the  village  brings  a  box  with  supper  put 
up  for  two." 

"  I  see." 

"  Sam  Tupman  gets  the  boxes  all  together  and 
auctions  them  off.  Some  boxes  fetches  as  much  as 
a  dollar." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"  Yes,  the  boys  gets  excited  and  bids  kind  of 
reckless.  When  everybody  has  got  a  box,  they  open 
them  up  and  find  the  cards  of  the  ladies  who  have 
put  up  the  lunches.  Then  each  man  finds  his  part- 
ner, and  her  and  him  eats  supper  together." 

"  Well,  that's  very  interesting.  I  should  think, 
however,  the  custom  of  bidding  in  the  dark,  as  one 
might  say,  would  bring  all  sorts  of  queer  people  to- 
gether." 

"  Well,  you  might  say  it  does,"  admitted  Sister 
Abby ;  "  but  when  a  body  is  eating,  he  don't  care 
much  who  his  company  happens  to  be.  Then  there's 
ways  of  getting  around  it,  too.  Nearly  every  girl 
ties  up  her  box  in  some  special  way  and  gives  the 
secret  to  somebody  particular." 

"  Ah,  I  see,  that  makes  a  difference." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  79 

"  The  girls  ties  their  boxes  with  ribbons,  and  we 
old  folks  mostly  ties  ours  with  twine.  One  year  I 
got  kind  of  tired  of  string,  and  I  tied  up  my  box 
with  blue  ribbon.  Well,  young  Sammy  Brown  bid 
for  it  and  run  the  price  up  to  seventy-five  cents. 
When  he  opened  the  box  and  found  my  name,  he 
looked  real  disappointed ;  but  he  got  over  it  when  he 
tasted  my  crullers.  You  think  you'd  like  to  come, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  a  good  deal."  Whit- 
man's hand  stole  to  the  latch  of  the  gate.  The  day 
was  fair  and  time  was  fleeting. 

"  Going  anywhere  particular  ?  " 

"  Well,"  Whitman  hesitated,  "  I  had  thought  of 
going  out  to  the  old  burying  ground  —  to  see  the 
head  stones.  The  Captain  said  some  of  them  were 
quite  historic." 

"  Yes,  summer  folks  seem  to  care  for  them." 
Sister  Abby's  manner  had  changed  from  expectancy 
to  mild  disappointment. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Miss  Abby?  " 

"  No,  nothing  particular.  I  kind  of  hoped  that 
you'd  stop  at  the  post  office  and  see  if  the  lanterns 
had  come." 

"  Surely,  I  will." 

"If  they  have,  you  might  just  drop  in  at  the  min- 
ister's—  the  sociable  is  to  be  there  —  and  offer  to 
help  him  string  them  up.  He's  kind  of  sawed  off, 
the  minister  is,  and  he  can't  reach  anything  but  the 
low  boughs  on  the  trees." 

"  Surely,  I'll  offer  to  string  them  up  for  him," 


80  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

Whitman  promised.  Then  in  order  to  keep  the 
afternoon  free  for  possible  adventure,  he  added: 
"  Late  in  the  afternoon  will  do,  I  presume?  " 

"  Sure,  if  you've  your  mind  set  on  seeing  the 
monuments." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them,"  Whitman  stoutly 
averred.  "  You  see  my  vacation  is  drawing  to  an 
end,  and  every  moment  of  it  seems  precious."  He 
smiled  back  at  the  drab  figure  of  Sister  Abby.  "  I 
won't  forget  the  lanterns,"  he  promised,  and  he 
started  down  the  road,  his  mind  drifting  from  Sister 
Abby  and  her  affairs  to  the  possibility  of  meeting 
Nancy  on  the  road. 

If  Radding  had  followed  instructions,  the  letter 
for  Nancy,  alias  Henry  Luffkin  (the  pseudonym  al- 
ways made  Whitman  smile)  must  lie  in  the  post  of- 
fice box  by  this  time.  He  was  determined  not  to 
lose  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Nancy's  joy. 

He  did  not  know  why  he  found  all  that  concerned 
Nancy  Rose  so  engrossing.  He  only  knew  that  her 
first  letter  had  diverted  and  amused  him;  that  each 
letter  that  followed  had  quickened  his  interest;  and 
that  since  he  had  met  her  face  to  face,  his  interest 
had  deepened  into  absorption. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  find  her  before  the 
close  of  this  long  bright  day;  and  he  recalled,  one  by 
one,  the  clues  to  her  possible  haunts  which  the  Cap- 
tain had  let  fall.  It  was  not  patriotic  interest,  but 
the  Captain's  hint  that  Nancy  was  often  to  be  found 
there,  that  led  him  to  the  ancient  burying  ground. 

It  lay  close  to  the  Lowell  place,  on  the  other  side 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  81 

of  the  wagon  road  that  ran  from  Deep  Harbor  past 
the  rear  of  the  mansion.  The  young  man  could 
already  discern  the  arch  of  the  wooden  gate  which 
shut  the  sleeping  soldiers  from  the  world.  And 
then  he  saw  what  made  his  pulses  leap.  A  woman 
turned  the  Lowell  stile,  crossed  the  road  and  disap- 
peared among  the  trees  in  the  graveyard.  It  was 
Nancy,  he  concluded;  and  quickening  his  steps,  he 
entered  the  silent  acres  and  looked  about  him.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  quiet  spot,  he  could  see  a  woman's 
form  bending  over  some  flower  beds. 

He  strolled  cautiously  in  that  direction,  saying  to 
himself  that  he  must  not  startle  Nancy.  In  the 
hope  that  she  would  turn  and  see  him  before  he  was 
forced  to  break  in  upon  her  solitude,  he  paused  be- 
fore an  old  wooden  monument,  swaying  uncertainly 
on  its  base,  and  tried  to  decipher  the  inscription. 
Suddenly,  when  he  had  gotten  no  further  than, 
"Killed  in  battle  on  these  shores  in  1813,"  a  voice 
behind  him  asked :  "  Are  you  interested  in  the  his- 
toric past  of  our  little  town  ?  " 

With  a  start,  Caleb  Whitman  turned  from  the 
battered  inscription  and  faced  —  Aunt  Roxana. 
He  knew  her  instantly  by  her  erect  carriage,  her  wide 
skirt  of  stiff  silk,  her  white  stockings  —  she  carried 
her  dress  high  to  avoid  the  grass  stains. 

Caleb  Whitman  raised  his  hat  and  smiled  down 
into  Aunt  Roxana's  face  as  fearlessly  as  he  smiled 
at  Sister  Abby  and  all  the  village  world.  "  I  am  in- 
deed," he  said.  "  I  was  only  wishing  that  I  might 
find  some  one  to  give  me  accurate  information." 


82  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

The  lady  hesitated.  Whitman  had  rightly 
guessed  that  her  vulnerable  point  was  Deep  Har- 
bor's past.  She  unbent  enough  to  say :  '  This 
monument  was  erected  over  the  graves  of  gallant 
men  who  died  in  defense  of  these  shores,"  and  she 
repeated  the  inscription,  even  supplying  the  obliter- 
ated words  of  the  scriptural  line. 

"  My  own  people  were  all  soldiers,"  she  vouch- 
safed, "  and  did  their  part  by  giving  their  life  blood 
to  save  this  nation." 

The  summer  visitor  had  an  inspiration.  "  Then 
you  must  be  one  of  the  Lowell  family,"  he  said. 
"  I've  promised  myself  to  see  your  stones.  But  of 
course  if  I  am  intruding — " 

A  flush  of  pleasure  mingled  with  pride  swept  over 
the  good  lady's  austere  countenance. 

"  You  are  quite  welcome  to  view  them,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  glad  that  I  happen  to  be  here  to  assist  you  in 
your  studies.  The  contemplation  of  the  last  resting 
places  of  patriots  must  ever  be  an  inspiration  to 
youth." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  the  pilgrim  murmured,  as  the  lady 
led  the  way  through  the  long  grass  to  a  line  of  tinfe- 
worn  head  stones,  with  inscriptions  faint  and  illeg- 
ible. 

"  This,"  she  said,  "  was  my  great  uncle,  who  died 
in  service.  This,  my  grandfather.  This  a  more 
distant  kinsman,  who  died  of  wounds,"  and  so  on 
and  on  she  read  the  names,  giving  the  man  by  her 
side,  in  many  a  touching  anecdote,  the  history  of  the 
past,  when  Deep  Harbor  had  been  glowing  with  life 
and  high  enterprise. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  83 

"  You  have  had  many  soldiers  in  your  family," 
Whitman  said,  his  eyes  searching  the  road  for  some 
glimpse  of  Nancy. 

The  lady's  head  tossed  high.  "  Yes,"  she  said 
proudly,  "  we  have  done  our  part."  She  sighed. 
"  As  a  child  I  could  not  forgive  myself  for  being 
born  a  girl." 

"  I  see."  Whitman  was  quick  to  catch  her  mean- 
ing. "  You  would  have  liked  to  have  been  a  gen- 
eral." 

"  Or  an  admiral,"  she  said  gravely.  "  Our  men 
fought  by  sea  as  well  as  by  land." 

She  led  the  way  toward  the  gate,  and  Whitman 
followed  meekly  in  her  train.  There  was  something 
in  the  stately  lady's  devotion  to  the  past  that  touched 
his  imagination.  For  her  sake,  he  could  almost  have 
wished  that  Nancy  might  have  been  of  the  sex  out 
of  which  generals  and  admirals  are  made. 

And  then,  at  that  very  moment,  Nancy  tripped 
across  the  road  and  entered  the  gate,  a  little  poke 
bonnet  shading  her  eyes,  a  funny  pair  of  old  fash- 
isned  mits,  that  displayed  her  pink  finger  tips,  drawn 
over  her  hands  and  arms. 

"  Aunt,"  she  called ;  and  then,  seeing  Whitman, 
she  stopped  short,  the  color  sweeping  her  face  to  the 
rim  of  the  poke  hat. 

Miss  Roxana  ignored  the  girl's  surprise.  As  if 
it  had  been  an  every-day  occurrence  for  her  to  stroll 
through  the  graveyard  with  a  good-looking  young 
man  in  flannels,  she  said  with  her  unbroken  dignity : 
"  This  young  man  is  interested  in  Deep  Harbor's 


84  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

past.  I  have  been  reading  and  explaining  the  in- 
scriptions." 

Her  manner  said  as  plainly  as  words,  "  The  inter- 
view is  over."  And  Whitman,  surmising  that  there 
was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  lingering,  lifted  his  hat 
and  wandered  a  step  or  two  in  another  direction, 
making  a  feint  of  further  study  of  the  old  head 
stones. 

"  You  are  going  to  the  village?  "  he  heard  Aunt 
Roxana  question  Nancy.. 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  the  list  of  commodities  to  be  pur- 
chased?" * 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Read  it."  Aunt  Roxana  might  have  been  one  of 
the  sleeping  generals  of  her  line,  issuing  military 
commands. 

"  *  Three  pounds  of  sugar/  "  Nancy  obediently 
began ;  "  '  pound  of  coffee,  pound  of  tea  — '  " 

"  Half  a  pound,"  corrected  Aunt  Roxana. 

"  '  Go  to  library.  Get  copy  of  Bunyan's  "  Holy 
War."  Nancy  looked  up.  "  That's  all." 

"  The  ribbon,"  Aunt  Roxana  prompted. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  ribbon.  What  color  did  you  tell 
the  minister  it  would  be  this  year  ?  "  The  girl's  tone 
was  listless. 

"  Seal  brown.  I  thought  it  a  decorous  shade, 
that  would  not  attract  unseemly  attention." 

"  I  hate  seal  brown,"  said  Nancy  wilfully.  "  Why 
can't  I  have  a  bright  color,  cherry  red?  " 

"  Seal  brown,"  repeated  Aunt  Roxana,  unmoved. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  85 

"  A  yard  and  a  half  ought  to  be  a  great  suffi- 
ciency." 

At  this  point  Whitman  gave  up  the  hope  that 
Aunt  Roxana  would  go  her  way.  With  a  slight 
bow,  therefore,  he  passed  the  two  ladies,  and  slowly 
returned  to  the  village,  hoping  that  Nancy  would 
soon  overtake  him. 

"  A  passing  traveller,"  he  heard  Aunt  Roxana  ex- 
plain to  her  niece,  as  he  made  his  retreat,  "  com- 
mendably  interested  in  his  country's  history." 


CHAPTER  X 

STROLL  as  slowly  as  he  would,  stop  as  often  as 
he  dared,  Caleb  Whitman  reached  the  village 
streets  without  being  overtaken  by  Nancy.  Aunt 
Roxana  had  decided  to  keep  her  at  home,  he  con- 
cluded rebelliously,  and  he  remembered  with  con- 
cern how  soon  he  was  due  in  New  York. 

As  he  passed  the  post  office,  he  remembered  his 
promise  to  Sister  Abby  to  ask  for  the  package  of 
Chinese  lanterns.  Upon  entering  the  building,  he 
found  that  the  distribution  of  a  late  mail  was  in 
progress,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  await  the  comple- 
tion of  that  work  before  he  could  hope  for  atten- 
tion. With  interest  that  bordered  on  excitement,  he 
watched  the  Captain's  box,  and  drew  a  breath  of 
relief  when  a  letter  on  the  granite  gray  paper  Rad- 
ding  affected  was  thrust  into  the  pigeon  hole. 

A  moment  later  the  postmaster  appeared  at  the 
delivery  window  and  Whitman  remembered  to  ask 
for  his  own  mail  as  well  as  for  the  lanterns.  The 
single  letter  the  postmaster  produced  was  enclosed  in 
a  granite  gray  envelope  like  the  one  that  awaited 
Nancy. 

"  New  York,  Sept.  i,  191 — 

"Dear  Caley :  "     (Rad  had  written  in  his  small, 

crabbed  hand) 

"  I  have  sent  the  fifty  per  instructions.     I  hate 
86 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  87 

to  take  the  Captain's  bracelet  and  cameo  pin  from 
him.  I  am  sure  they  were  becoming  or  you 
wouldn't  be  so  philanthropic. 

"  Yours, 

"  RAD." 

The  note  made  the  reader  laugh  in  spite  of  him- 
self. "  That  letter  is  like  Rad,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  if  he  followed  my 
instructions  about  writing  to  Nancy." 

"  Here  are  the  lanterns  you  were  asking  for,"  the 
postmaster  reminded  him,  and  pushed  a  clumsy 
bundle  out  the  little  window. 

"  I'll  take  them  to  the  minister's  and  be  rid  of 
them,"  Whitman  concluded;  and,  leaving  the  post 
office,  he  went  slowly  down  the  one  business  street, 
peering  into  the  grocer's,  the  milliner's,  the  store  of 
small  wares,  in  search  of  a  shopper  in  a  poke  bonnet. 
So  far  she  was  still  nowhere  in  sight. 

It  was  not  until  after  he  had  left  the  bundle  at 
the  minister's  that  he  remembered  that  Nancy  had 
been  bidden  to  go  to  the  library.  Where  was  it? 
He  looked  in  vain  down  the  long  shady  street,  slop- 
ing to  the  wharfs.  He  searched  his  memory. 
"  Where's  the  library  ?  "  he  finally  asked  a  solitary 
passer-by. 

The  woman  pointed  to  the  church.  "  There,"  she 
said,  and  plodded  on  her  way.  "  The  church  ?  " 
Whitman  called  after  her.  "  The  tower,"  she  said. 

The  church  did  indeed  boast  a  tower,  and  upon 
approach  Whitman  saw  that  a  sign  on  the  door  an- 


88  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

nounced  that  the  library  was  open  Tuesday  and 
Thursday  afternoons.  He  determined  to  wait  here 
for  Nancy.  From  the  windows  in  the  church's 
square  tower  he  could  sweep  half  the  countryside. 
He  entered  eagerly,  and  following  the  directions  of 
a  painted  arrow,  ran  up  a  winding  stair.  At  the 
top  of  the  first  flight  he  paused  at  the  door  of  a 
small  room  stacked  with  books.  An  attendant  rose 
as  he  entered. 

"  I'm  a  stranger  in  Deep  Harbor  — "  he  began. 

"  Boarding  with  the  Captain,"  she  supplied  glibly. 

"  Yes,"  Whitman  admitted,  wondering  if  anything 
above  the  earth  or  under  the  waters  of  the  earth  was 
hidden  from  the  inhabitants  of  a  small  village. 

"  Look  around  and  make  yourself  at  home,"  the 
attendant  looked  up  from  her  crocheting  to  say. 

It  occurred  to  the  visitor  that  this  would  not  take 
long  to  do,  as  the  tower  room  was  only  some  ten  feet 
square. 

"Any  book  you  want  particular?"  the  attendant 
asked. 

"  No,  I  just  came  to  make  a  general  survey." 

"  Like  to  go  upstairs  ?  " 

"Upstairs?" 

"  Yes,  the  library  goes  on  up  the  tower ;  next  floor 
is  Religion  and  Non-Fiction ;  top  floor  Juvenile." 

"  I'd  like  to  look  over  the  religious  books,"  said 
Whitman. 

This  pious  desire  sprang  from  a  sudden  recollec- 
tion of  the  book  Aunt  Roxana  had  put  on  Nancy's 
list. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  89 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?"  the  attendant  asked,  as 
the  visitor  started  up  the  second  flight. 

"  No,  indeed,  I  just  want  to  look  about  a  bit.  I 
fancy  there's  a  fine  view  up  higher  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  there  is,"  the  girl  conceded  indiffer- 
ently. "  You  can  see  out  as  far  as  the  cemetery, 
and  all  over  the  town." 

As  these  were  the  points  of  interest  to  Whitman, 
he  quickly  ascended  another  flight  of  stairs  and  sta- 
tioned himself  in  the  window.  As  the  girl  had 
promised,  his  view  commanded  the  country  side. 
He  looked  down  on  the  beautiful  little  village,  with 
its  white  spires  and  gray  roofs  peeping  through  the 
trees.  He  identified  the  Captain's  cottage  on  its 
lonely  bluff.  He  found  the  chimney  of  the  mansion 
where  Nancy  lived.  Dear  old  town,  steeped  in  mem- 
ories! He  had  grown  to  love  it.  There  was  a 
charm  in  the  sagging  wharfs,  in  the  sleepy  street 
bordered  with  little  stores  with  diamond  paned  shop 
windows. 

Abruptly  his  revery  ended.  A  little  figure  in  a 
poke  bonnet,  whose  presence  lent  enchantment  to 
every  corner  of  the  town,  had  just  come  out  of  the 
post  office.  She  was  hastening  down  the  street,  a 
basket  on  her  arm,  walking  rapidly  in  the  direction 
of  the  tower.  A  few  minutes  later  Whitman 
heard  her  step  on  the  stair.  Evidently  she  knew  the 
library  sufficiently  well  to  come  directly  to  the  shelves 
where  the  religious  books  were  stacked,  for  she  did 
not  pause  on  the  floor  below. 

"  Oh,"   she  said,  breathlessly,  appearing  in  the 


90  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

doorway  and  discovering  the  young  man,  "  I  thought 
there  was  no  one  here." 

The  man  in  the  window  seat  arose.  "  I'll  go, 
Nancy,  if  you  want  to  be  alone/' 

"  No,"  she  said,  after  a  momentary  pause,  "  I 
don't  mind;  but  go  on  reading,  please.  I  want  to 
look  over  a  letter." 

She  took  a  hat  pin  from  her  bonnet  and  slit  open 
a  gray  envelope  as  she  spoke.  Caleb  Whitman  did 
not  raise  his  eyes  from  his  book. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Nancy,  after  a  long  moment,  as  if 
she  were  smothering,  "  oh !  "  and  again,  "  oh !  " 

Whitman  sprang  from  his  seat  and  hurried  to  her 
side.  The  face  she  lifted  to  his  was  bathed  in  tears. 
She  let  them  fall  quite  openly  as  she  pressed  the 
letter  to  her  breast. 

"What's  the  matter,  dearest?"  Whitman  cried, 
unconscious  of  using  the  endearing  term.  "  Tell  me 
Nancy,  has  something  hurt  you  ?  " 

His  hands  clenched.  If  Radding  had  played  false, 
he  would  not  be  forgiven  in  a  hurry. 

"Matter!"  she  sobbed.  "I'm  just  smothering 
with  joy,  that's  all." 

She  let  him  seize  her  hand,  without  protest,  her 
pink  fingers  curling  around  his,  her  overflowing  eyes 
on  his  eager  face. 

"  If  you  are  happy,  Nancy,"  he  pleaded,  "  why  do 
you  cry  ?  " 

He  stooped  over  her  trembling  little  form,  and 
taking  out  a  generous  sized  handkerchief,  he  wiped 
her  eyes  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  91 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  sobbed  on  a  long,  uneven 
breath.  "  Don't  you  ever  cry  when  you  are 
happy  ?  "  An  uncertain  smile  broke  through  her 
tears.  "  April  is  the  happiest  month  of  all,  and  she 
cries  all  the  time." 

He  laughed  his  delight  in  her  fancy.  "  Is  it  the 
Great  Happiness,  Nancy  ?  " 

"  It's  the  key  to  it,"  she  said.  "  Everything  is 
going  to  begin  now,  for  me  and  for  those  I  love." 

"  I'm  so  glad,  so  glad,"  he  glowed,  his  warm  hand 
enclosing  hers.  "  Will  it  mean  anything  for  me, 
Nancy,  or  am  I  quite  on  the  outside  ?  " 

Two  eyes  like  stars  were  raised  to  his.  "  The 
gate  of  the  garden  will  open,"  she  said. 

"  When  it  does,  Nancy,  may  I  be  the  first  to  en- 
ter?" 

"  I  want  you  to  be,"  she  murmured.  .  .  . 

"  Get  what  you  wanted,  Miss  Rose  ?  "  The  voice 
was  that  of  the  attendant  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 
Nancy  dried  her  eyes. 

"  I  forget  what  I  came  for,"  she  whispered  to 
Whitman  in  consternation. 

'  Bunyan's  Holy  War,'  "  he  prompted,  and  he 
found  the  volume  on  the  shelf  and  gave  it  into 
Nancy's  keeping  before  the  head  of  the  attendant 
had  more  than  appeared  at  the  top  step  of  the 
stairs. 

''  Yes,"  said  Nancy,  handing  over  the  heavy 
volume  for  registration,  "  I've  found  it." 

"  Going  to  the  box  social?  "  the  girl  asked,  stamp- 
ing Nancy's  card. 


92  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"Yes."  Nancy  stole  a  glance  at  the  summer 
visitor,  fumbling  among  the  book  shelves. 

"  That's  good,"  said  the  attendant.  "  I  hope  for 
your,  sake  the  minister  doesn't  draw  your  box  again. 
It's  awful  dull  for  you  to  eat  with  him  every  year." 

"  He'll  always  draw  my  box,"  said  Nancy  in  a 
clear,  sweet  voice. 

"How's  that?" 

"  Because  Aunt  ties  it  up  herself,  and  tells  him  the 
color  of  the  ribbon.  It's  the  only  way  she'll  let  me 
go.  She  says  she  couldn't  consider  leaving  it  to 
chance." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Nancy,  with  a  glance  so  tender, 
a  face  so  suffused  with  joy  that  it  was  like  an  April 
sun. 

"Going  straight  home?"  the  attendant  called 
after  her. 

"No,"  said  Nancy;  and  her  voice  rang  clear. 
"  I've  another  errand  to  do  first.  I  have  to  get  some 
seal  brown  ribbon  at  the  store." 


CHAPTER  XI 

**T  T  OW  much  for  this  box,  gentlemen?"  Sam 
•*•  -1  Tupman  begged,  from  his  stand  on  a  pack- 
ing case.  "  Ten  cents!  "  the  auctioneer  reproached. 
"  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Jim  Lyman.  There's  more 
than  ten  cents'  worth  of  butter  on  the  bread. 
Twenty-five?  That's  better.  Don't  insult  the 
young  lady  who  put  up  this  box.  Thirty-five? 
Come,  thirty-five.  That's  right,  Henshaw.  A  fel- 
low with  a  mouth  as  large  as  yours  ought  to  pay 
thirty-five  cents  for  looking  at  a  box  like  this." 

The  laughter  that  rolled  up  from,  the  village  peo- 
ple who  had  gathered  on  the  minister's  lawn  added 
to  the  fun  at  the  grinning  country  boy's  expense. 
The  bidding  mounted.  It  soared.  A  box,  tied  with 
flaming  orange,  was  knocked  down  to  the  boy  with 
the  large  mouth  for  sixty  cents!  The  minister's  car- 
pet began  to  assume  reality. 

From  his  seat  under  the  trees,  Caleb  Whitman 
laughed  and  enjoyed  the  fun  with  the  others.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  nothing  the  city  offered  could 
compare  with  this  little  village  fete  for  pure  and 
innocent  enjoyment.  The  spirit  of  neighborliness 
everywhere  manifested,  the  tingling  excitement  of 
the  young  people  in  the  auction,  the  hearty  enjoy- 
ment the  country  found  in  Sam  Tupman's  humor, 

93 


94  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

all  gave  to  the  simple  entertainment  an  air,  or  so  the 
man  from  the  city  thought,  as  wholesome  as  the 
breeze  that  came  in  exhilarating  puffs  from  the  blue 
waters  of  Ontario.  He  thought  of  New  York,  with 
its  chill  indifference  and  hard  worldliness  with  pro- 
found distaste. 

And  then  from  his  seat  under  the  bobbing  lanterns 
which  he  had  helped  to  suspend  from  the  splendid 
old  maple  trees,  he  turned  his  eyes  again  to  Nancy, 
who  sat  with  the  neighbors  to  whom  Aunt  Roxana 
had  entrusted  her,  persons  whose  dress  and  manner 
proclaimed  for  them  special  distinction  in  the  com- 
munity. At  each  successive  meeting  he  had  told 
himself  that  Nancy's  beauty  and  charm  had  reached 
their  height.  But  never  before  had  he  seen  her  with 
her  eyes  shining  with  ecstasy,  her  cheeks  flying  ban- 
ners of  joy,  her  girlish  throat  encircled  by  a  coral 
necklace,  her  happy  face  peeping  from  beneath  a 
white  lace  hat,  with  a  rose  tucked  beneath  the  brim. 
It  was  plainly  Nancy's  gala  hat,  and  Nancy's  gala 
day. 

The  Captain,  looking  very  spruce  in  his  black  Sun- 
day suit,  his  white  collar,  dazzlingly  polished,  scrap- 
ing his  ears,  leaned  toward  his  summer  boarder. 
'  The  boxes  are  going  fast ;  you'd  better  begin  bid- 
ding unless  you  want  to  go  hungry,"  he  warned. 

"  I've  got  my  eye  on  one." 

Whitman's  assurance  made  the  Captain  chuckle. 
"  Don't  need  no  looking  after  by  me,"  he  said ;  and 
he  settled  back  to  enjoy  the  fun  of  Sam  Tupman's 
antics. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  95 

The  auction  was  coming  to  a  close.  Most  of  the 
men  present  were  balancing  generous  boxes  on  their 
knees,  awaiting  the  signal  to  open  them,  to  search 
for  the  packers'  names. 

Sam  Tupman  looked  at  the  minister,  a  fat,  short, 
benevolent  little  man  of  sixty  years,  in  a  rusty  coat. 
Then  he  picked  up  a  box  from  among  the  few  left 
on  the  table,  a  box  that  looked  as  if  it  had  once  con- 
tained five  pounds  of  candy,  wrapped  neatly  in  white 
tissue  paper,  bound  sedately  with  seal  brown  ribbon ; 
but,  alas  for  Aunt  Roxana's  decorum,  with  a  big 
moss  rose  thrust  coquettishly  through  the  bow. 

"  How  much  ?  "  said  Sam  Tupman,  omitting  his 
usual  raillery. 

The  minister  murmured :     "  Twenty-five  cents." 

"  Fifty,"  said  Whitman  promptly. 

The  auctioneer  hesitated.  The  minister  put  on  his 
glasses  and  looked  his  flock  over  to  see  whence  the 
voice  of  the  interloper  came.  "  Fifty-five,"  he  said 
at  last,  with  careful  deliberation.  The  Captain 
shook  with  inward  laughter.  "  Go  it,"  he  challenged 
Whitman  admiringly. 

"  Seventy-five,"  said  the  stranger  within  the  gates. 

"  Eighty,"  said  the  minister. 

"  One  dollar!  "     Whitman's  voice  rang  out. 

The  auctioneer  paused.  "  Parson,"  he  cried 
above  the  laughter,  "  if  you'd  auctioned  as  long  as  I 
have,  you'd  know  when  to  quit  by  the  ring  in  the 
other  fellow's  voice.  That  boy  ain't  got  onto  his 
real  wind  yet." 

"  A  dollar  ten,"  said  the  minister  firmly. 


96  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Two  dollars,"  from  Whitman. 

The  minister  wiped  his  forehead.  !t  You're  right, 
Sam,"  he  called  good-naturedly.  "  I  can't  tire  him 
out;  but  I  gave  him  a  run  for  his  money." 

The  worldly  phrase  from  the  guileless  little  min- 
ister caused  a  rumble  of  laughter  from  his  flock,  that 
died  only  to  rise  again. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Miss  Abby,  leaning  toward  Whit- 
man, "  there  ain't  been  such  excitement  in  Deep 
Harbor  in  many  a  day.  I  hope  you  got  a  good  box. 
I  meant  to  give  you  a  hint  about  mine." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  tables  were  spread.  The 
young  people  as  well  as  the  elderly  folk  (age  far  out- 
numbered youth  in  the  old  town)  opened  the  boxes 
and  found  their  partners'  names. 

Caleb  Whitman  left  his  seat  with  the  Luffkins  and 
crossed  the  lawn.  "  Come,  Nancy,"  he  said. 

The  friends  to  whom  she  had  been  entrusted  had 
wandered  away,  leaving  her  for  the  moment  alone. 
With  an  adorable  readiness,  quite  unlike  the  giggling 
reluctance  the  village  girls  were  feigning,  Nancy 
arose. 

"  Oh,"  she  reproached  the  young  man,  her  lips 
parting  in  a  smile.  "  How  did  you  dare  ?  " 

"  They  told  me  to  bid  on  a  box."  Whitman 
laughed  down  into  her  upturned  face.  "If  it  hap- 
pened to  be  yours — "  His  gesture  implied  that 
such  being  the  case,  he  was  not  to  blame. 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  the  color  of  the  ribbon,  did 
I?  "  She  waited  anxiously  for  his  answer,  as  if  to 
gather  assurance  for  future  defense. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  97 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  affirmed  unblushingly,  leading 
her  to  a  seat  between  two  maple  trees. 

"  But,"  Nancy  persisted,  "  how  did  you  know  that 
it  was  my  box,  if  you  didn't  know  the  color  of  my 
ribbon?  You  haven't  opened  it  to  find  my  name." 

Whitman's  answer  was  ready.  "  I  knew  it  by  the 
sign  of  the  rose,"  he  said,  taking  the  flower  from 
the  box,  to  pin  it  on  his  coat.  "  It's  your  symbol, 
Nancy  —  a  moss  rose  in  an  old  fashioned  garden." 

When  they  were  seated  on  the  board  seat  Nancy 
opened  her  box  revealing  a  loaf  of  almond  cake 
(made  with  orange  flower  wine)  and  piles  of  little 
sandwiches,  tied  bewitchingly  with  cherry  colored 
ribbons. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  the  minister,"  the  man  beside  her 
said,  making  one  mouthful  of  a  little  square  of  bread 
and  butter,  "  he'll  miss  the  cherry  ribbons." 

"  He's  never  had  them,"  Nancy  replied  quickly ; 
and  then  she  blushed. 

"  Were  they  —  for  me,  Nancy?  " 

"  For  the  highest  bidder,"  said  Nancy.  Aunt 
Roxana's  lessons  in  discretion  had  not  been  in  vain. 
Then  she  added,  anxiously :  "  Those  sandwiches 
look  very  small,  some  way,  for  your  mouth." 

"  They  were  measured  for  a  rose  bud,"  he  replied, 
looking  straight  at  two  red  lips. 

"  The  minister  never  said  things  like  that." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  dare." 

"  No,"  Nancy  decided  judicially.  "  I  think  it  was 
because  he  was  too  busy  eating  bread  and  butter. 
On  the  way  home,  though,  he  sometimes  paid  me  the 


98  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

compliment  of  telling  me  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  a 
comfort  to  my  Aunt." 

"  On  the  way  home  ?  Has  it  been  his  custom  to 
take  you  home?" 

She  sighed  and  nodded. 

"  He's  not  going  to  do  it,  to-night.  You're  going 
with  me." 

She  looked  her  longing.  Then  she  sighed  again. 
"  No,  it  would  never  do." 

"  Yes,"  he  pleaded. 

She  hesitated,  catching  her  breath.  "  Then  we 
must  start  early  —  before  nine,"  she  decided. 

"  Well,"  he  conceded,  wondering  if  the  earlier 
hour  would  appease  Aunt  Roxana's  disapproval. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  the  minister  ?  " 

"  I'll  trust  to  inspiration.  It's  never  hard  to  per- 
suade a  fat  man  to  sit  still.  I'll  tell  him  that  the 
privilege  of  taking  you  home  goes  with  the  box." 

He  picked  up  the  cover,  which  had  served  him  for 
a  plate.  "  Hello,"  he  said,  "  a  New  York  candy 
box." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nancy.  "  The  old  man  with  gray 
whiskers,  of  whom  I  told  you,  sent  me  the  candy. 
It  was  a  wonderful  box.  A  revelation  in  candy, 
after  peppermint  sticks  in  paper  bags.  I  have 
thought  of  New  York  ever  since  as  a  splendid  box 
of  bon  bons,  each  layer  more  wonderful  than  the 
last.  Is  it  like  that?" 

The  city  which  had  seemed  so  distasteful  a  mo- 
ment before,  assumed  brighter  form  with  Nancy's 
words.  He  thought  suddenly  of  all  the  treasures 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  99 

of  art  gathered  there,  of  the  shops  and  the  play 
houses,  the  ships  on  the  river,  the  gayety  of  the 
avenue;  and  he  began  to  tell  Nancy  of  the  side  of 
New  York  that  was  indeed  like  a  candy  box,  lined 
with  paper  lace,  all  ready,  should  she  come  there,  for 
the  pinch  of  her  golden  tongs. 

"  And  you  will  come,  Nancy  ?  "  he  pleaded  as  the 
shadows  lengthened. 

"  Maybe,"  she  promised.  "  Anything  seems  pos- 
sible —  now."  And  then  she  asked,  quite  suddenly, 
"  Didn't  you  once  mention  a  man  named  Radding  to 
me?" 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  startled. 

"Who  is  he?" 

'  There  are  dozens  of  people  of  that  name  in  New 
York.  The  one  I  know  is  a  scholar  and  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  What  does  he  do  for  his  living?  " 

"  He  writes  a  little  and  lives  on  his  income." 

"Ah!"     Her  sigh  was  one  of  relief. 

"  Do  you  write,  Nancy  ?  I  should  think  you 
might,  with  that  pretty  fancy  of  yours."  He  waited 
expectantly,  hoping  for  her  confession  of  the  author- 
ship of  the  poem. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No.  I  feel  things,  but 
I  don't  draw  them,  or  sing  them,  or  write  them." 

The  long  northern  twilight  grew  dimmer.  Black 
night  set  in.  Some  one  lighted  the  lanterns,  which 
bobbed  from  the  high  branches  where  Whitman  had 
strung  them,  like  huge  fire  flies  among  the  trees.  A 
vast  content  with  the  present,  an  eager  expectancy  of 


ioo  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

the  future,  flooded  his  being.  Life  was  a  spring  of 
living  water,  to  which  he  pressed  his  lips. 

"  Come,"  said  Nancy  suddenly.  "  We  must  start. 
I  did  not  know  it  was  so  late.  Time  had  wings,  to- 
night." 

When  Whitman  begged  for  the  privilege  of  tak- 
ing Nancy  home  the  minister  demurred.  '  You  are 
a  stranger  to  Miss  Roxana,"  he  said. 

"  I  spent  all  yesterday  afternoon  with  her,"  Whit- 
man argued. 

"Well,"  the  minister  gave  in,  "if  she  says 
anything,  send  her  to  me.  If  she  never  finds  it  out, 
let  it  be  on  my  conscience."  He  patted  Nancy  on 
the  shoulder  and  gave  his  fat  little  hand  to  Whitman 
in  farewell.  "  It  was  good  of  you,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  "to  bid  so  generously  this  evening  in 
order  to  help  the  church." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  walk  home,  down  the  long  country  road, 
under  the  summer  stars,  was  at  an  end. 
Nancy  paused  decisively  at  the  stile.  "  Good  night," 
she  said.  "  I  can  find  my  way  in  alone." 

"  I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  Nancy,  for  that  great 
black,  shuttered  house  to  swallow  up." 

"  I'm  used  to  it,  Mr.  Whitman." 

"  What  will  you  tell  Aunt  Roxana  about  to- 
night?" 

"  I'll  tell  her  -  "  the  Cupid's  bow  arched  over  the 
white,  even  teeth. 

"  Yes,"  eagerly,  his  hand  retaining  hers. 

"  That  miles  aren't  always  the  same  length ;  that 
the  walk  to  the  village  to  buy  brown  ribbon  is  much 
longer  than  the  walk  back  in  the  evening  after  the 
ribbon  has  been  untied." 

"  Ah,  Nancy." 

But  she  had  darted  from  him,  to  run  fleetly  toward 
the  house,  like  a  Cinderella  who  hears  the  strike  of 
the  clock.  He  watched  the  shadowy  form  disap- 
pear into  the  deep  blackness  of  the  tunneled  arbor, 
hoping  to  learn  through  the  sound  of  her  great  door 
key  in  the  lock  or  the  flicker  of  her  candle  at  some 
window,  that  she  was  safe  within  the  lonely  dwell- 

101 


102  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

ing.  No  such  signal  came  to  him,  but  still  he  lin- 
gered at  the  gate,  his  thoughts  tumultuous. 

To  return  to  the  village  fete  without  Nancy,  after 
those  wonderful  moments  together,  beneath  the  old 
trees,  seemed  impossible  —  an  anti-climax  to  an 
evening  that  had  mounted  steadily  in  significance  and 
enjoyment.  How  much  they  had  found  to  say  to 
one  another.  How  much  they  had  left  unsaid.  He 
was  haunted  by  the  thought  that  in  spite  of  the  long, 
uninterrupted  tete-a-tete,  he  had  let  Nancy  go  with- 
out telling  her  something  of  the  utmost  importance. 
What  was  it?  He  searched  his  memory.  Ah,  at 
last  he  knew.  Sweet  and  disturbing,  for  the  first 
time  the  truth  swept  over  him.  He  wanted  to  tell 
Nancy  that  —  he  loved  her. 

His  mind  leaped  to  their  next  meeting,  only  to  be 
stunned  by  the  thought  that  his  last  days  in  the  old 
town  might  yield  him  no  opportunity  to  pour  out  to 
Nancy  the  new  and  amazing  discovery.  Against 
such  a  possibility  his  will  beat  with  stubborn  resist- 
ance, as  he  pondered  the  question  of  how  to  bring 
about  a  tryst.  A  penciled  note,  written  by  the  light 
of  a  match,  and  left  in  the  bower,  might  catch  her 
eye,  with  slight  risk  of  being  found  by  any  one 
else.  He  would  take  that  chance;  and,  having  so 
decided,  he  strolled  down  the  road  until  he  came  to 
the  corner  of  the  hedge  that  surrounded  the  estate 
where  the  latticed  summer-house  rose  black  among 
the  shrubbery.  In  order  to  leave  no  betraying  foot- 
steps in  Aunt  Roxana's  realm,  he  planned  to  enter 
by  the  break  in  the  thicket. 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  103 

The  trees  sighed  and  creaked  as  he  bent  his  head 
to  creep  under  their  branches.  The  woodbine  that 
draped  Nancy's  bower  rustled  ominously.  The 
night,  under  the  overhanging  boughs  of  the  trees, 
among  the  tangle  of  syringa  and  lilacs,  was  an  un- 
broken sheet  of  black.  Suddenly  Whitman  paused, 
and  looked  again.  From  within  the  summer-house's 
inky  interior  a  tiny  spark  of  fire  pricked  the  dark- 
ness with  an  intermittent  glow.  No  man  could  mis- 
take that  light.  Whitman  stopped  short.  "  A  man 
in  the  bower,"  he  said  to  himself,  even  before  the 
odor  of  tobacco  mingled  with  the  garden  scents.  A 
moment  after,  a  burnt  out  cigarette  was  flung  care- 
lessly through  the  brush.  A  man  came  to  the  door 
and  whistled  a  faint  bugle  call,  softly,  persistently. 
Even  in  the  dim  light  of  stars  his  service  hat,  his 
tight  blouse  and  his  high  leggins  gave  to  his  silhouete 
a  distinctive  outline  not  to  be  mistaken  for  that  of  a 
civilian. 

Caleb  Whitman  could  not  have  taken  a  step  with- 
out betraying  his  presence.  Uncertain  what  course 
to  pursue,  torn  with  vague  fears,  he  waited.  The 
stone  nymph  with  the  broken  arm  was  not  more 
silent  than  he. 

Again  the  guarded  whistle  fluted  through  the 
silence. 

"  I'm  coming,"  cried  a  sweet  voice,  down  the 
gravel  path.  And  now  Whitman  could  not  have 
moved  had  he  wished.  His  feet,  his  hands,  his  very 
tongue  in  his  parched  mouth,  seemed  paralyzed  with 
foreboding. 


io4  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

The  boughs  overhanging  the  path  parted  wide  and 
Nancy's  white  form  flashed  into  the  grassy  plot 
before  the  bower. 

"Is  that  you,  Bob?"  The  voice  was  gay  with 
expectation. 

"  Yes.  A  pretty  time  you've  kept  me  waiting.  I 
was  just  about  to  give  you  up." 

Whitman's  hands  clenched  at  the  easy  nonchalance 
of  that  reply,  and  then  his  fingers  loosened  lifelessly; 
for  the  girl  he  loved  had  tripped  toward  the  waiting 
soldier  and  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Oh,  Bob,  Bob,  precious,"  her  voice  came  to  the 
man  who  watched.  "  I'm  so  happy.  Did  you  get 
my  note  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  got  it,  Nance;  that's  why  I'm  here. 
Don't  break  my  ribs  even  if  you  are  glad  to  see 
me." 

A  primitive  instinct  to  grapple  with  a  man  who 
treated  Nancy's  love  with  that  easy  tolerance  swept 
over  Whitman. 

"  What  kept  you  so  late?  "  The  soldier  lighted 
another  cigarette.  By  the  glow  of  the  match  Whit- 
man recognized  the  handsome  face  of  Sergeant  Wil- 
son with  sickening  certainty. 

"  I  came  home  promptly,  Bob,"  Nancy  explained ; 
"  but  some  one  who  came  with  me  lingered  at  the 
gate.  I  did  not  dare  come  out  to  you  until  I  was 
sure  he  had  gone." 

"  Well,  now  I'm  here,  what  do  you  want  ?  I  gave 
up  a  jolly  good  game  of  pool  to  come." 

The  tone  was  one  of  affectionate  indulgence,  with 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  105 

no  hint  of  a  lover's  rapture.  Its  assurance  struck  a 
chill  to  Whitman's  heart. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Bob,  that  we  can  send 
old  Goldstein  about  his  business.  Your  trouble  is 
over.  I  have  the  money." 

"  You  haven't !  "  The  soldier  seized  something 
which  Nancy  took  from  her  bosom,  felt  it,  then  drew 
her  to  him  with  one  strong  arm,  kissed  her  soundly, 
and  said :  "  All  I  can  say  is  that  you're  a  brick. 
How  did  you  do  it?  Appeal  to  the  Czarina?  " 

"  No,  that  would  have  spoiled  everything.  I  did 
it  in  my  own  way.  I'll  tell  you  how  some  day. 
Now  go,  or  you'll  be  late." 

"  Let  me  go  then."  The  tone  was  bantering,  but 
Whitman  winced.  "  I'll  not  forget  what  you've 
done,  Nance.  I'll  make  you  proud  of  me  yet. 
That's  the  only  way  I  can  repay  you." 

"  I've  always  known  you  would,  Bob,"  she  said, 
sealing  the  promise  with  a  kiss. 

"  Good-bye,  kid.  I'll  be  late  for  *  check '  if  I 
don't  skip." 

He  strode  toward  the  path  that  led  to  the  stile, 
with  Nancy  in  his  wake.  Whitman  waited  until  he 
heard  the  sergeant's  gay  whistle  well  down  the  road 
before  he  moved.  Then  he  staggered  into  the 
bower,  and  bowed  his  head  on  his  arms  over  the 
rustic  table,  his  brain  whirling  with  agonizing,  dis- 
cordant thoughts.  How  long  he  sat  there  he  could 
not  remember ;  nor  how  long  it  took  him  to  stumble 
blindly  back  to  the  village,  silent  and  sleeping,  and 
out  the  country  road  to  the  Captain's  cottage. 


io6  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

At  his  step  in  the  house,  Miss  Abby  appeared  at 
her  door.  "  Well,"  she  said,  "  Henry  and  I  thought 
you  must  have  got  drowned.  I  couldn't  sleep  for 
thinking  of  you."  She  held  a  candle  aloft  and 
peered  from  her  room  at  Whitman,  whose  step  was 
already  on  the  stair. 

"  What  time  does  the  first  train  leave  for  New 
York  to-morrow,  Miss  Abby  ?  "  he  asked  heavily. 

"  There's  none  until  night,  unless  you  want  to  go 
over  to  Fairview  with  Brother  Henry  on  his  first 
trip  and  catch  the  interurban  to  Adams." 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  that.  Something  has  come  up  to 
shorten  my  vacation.  I'm  going  back  to  work  as 
quick  as  I  can." 

Miss  Abby  stared.  "  Well,  for  pity's  sakes,"  she 
said. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  fourteenth  of  February  had  come.  The 
windows  of  candy  shops  were  stacked  high 
with  heart  shaped  boxes.  The  girls  behind  the 
counters  of  sweets  took  orders  with  lightning  rapid- 
ity. The  florists  were  hurrying  off  bouquets  of  vio- 
lets and  roses  which  must  be  delivered  before  the  day 
died,  without  fail.  Little  boys  tip-toed  up  steps, 
rang  bells  and  ran  away,  leaving  embossed  envelopes 
on  the  stoops.  From  the  news  stands  Better  Every 
Week,  in  its  new  dress,  cried  to  the  world  in  bold, 
black  letters  that  the  Valentine  Special  was  on  the 
market.  From  its  cover,  Cupid  in  a  biplane  winged 
a  world  with  his  arrows. 

"  Looks  pretty  good,  doesn't  it  ?  "  Radding  sug- 
gested to  the  young  editor,  as  they  paused  for  a 
fleeting  moment  in  the  subway  to  ask  the  girl  behind 
the  news  stand  how  the  edition  was  going. 

"  Yes,  Rad,  it  does.  I  worked  hard  on  it. 
Funny,  isn't  it,  that  I  should  have  edited  a  valentine 
number,  when  I  have  neither  sent  nor  received  a 
valentine  in  my  life?  " 

"  How  did  that  happen  ?  "  asked  Radding,  as  they 
found  seats  in  the  train. 

"  You  know  my  boyhood.  An  orphan  on  my 
107 


io8  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

uncle's  farm,  small  chance  I  had  of  receiving  or 
sending  sentimental  offerings." 

"Caley"   said   Radding  whimsically,      say 
word  and  I'll  send  you  a  tribute  to-day, 
shall  it  be,—  violets  or  mixed  chocolates?  " 

Radding's   foolery  made  Whitman  smile  at 
own  expense.     "The  new   magazine   is   valentine 
enough  for  me,  Rad,"  he  said;  "  I'm  feeling  pretty 

good  over  it." 

He  suddenly  noticed  that  a  man  beside  him  was 
lost  in  the  pages  of  the  number.     "  Funny,  isn't 
Rad,"  he  whispered,  indicating  the  reader,  ' 
a  bullet  headed  chap  like  that  likes  sentiment  as  wel 
as  a  girl?     I  never  get  over  it." 

At  this  moment,  the  man  took  out  his  knife  am 
cut  something  from  a  column  of  the  magazine,  whicl 
he   folded  into  his  bill  case  before  he  flung  the 
"Special"    down    and    left    the    car.     Whitman 
reached  for  the  paper. 

"  I'm  curious  to  see  what  caught  his  fancy, 

said. 

"  Yes,"  Rad  drawled,  "  when  a  writer  s  stuff  gei 
into  vest  pockets  and  shopping  bags,  an  editor  had 
better  hold  onto  him." 

He  watched  with  interest  as  Whitman  turned  the 
pages  to  see  what  was  missing. 

"  What  was  it?  "  he  asked,  as  Whitman  gazed  at 
the  hole  the  knife  had  made. 

"  Nothing."     The  words  came  stiffly.     "  Just  " 
Whitman  turned  his  eyes  heavily  toward  his  friend. 
"Just  Nancy's  poem.     You  know, —  Lady  Valen- 
tine." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  109 

He  looked  steadily  in  front  of  him  for  a  long  mo- 
ment, without  a  word. 

Radding  watched  him  narrowly.  It  was  the  first 
time  either  of  them  had  mentioned  the  girl  in  Deep 
Harbor  since  that  day  last  September  when  Whitman 
had  come  back,  looking  worn  and  haggard.  "  Don't 
chaff  me,  Rad,  please.  I  can't  stand  it,"  was  all  he 
had  said  in  response  to  his  friend's  badinage  over 
his  unexpected  return.  And  Radding  had  respected 
that  request.  The  subject  had  been  dropped.  Now, 
however,  Radding  seized  the  chance  to  say  something 
that  had  long  been  in  his  mind. 

"  Caley,"  he  began  gently,  "  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  to  tell  you  that  I  felt  pretty  bad  over  the  out- 
come of  our  fun.  I've  never  ceased  to  blame  myself 
for  fanning  your  interest  in  that  girl ;  for  teasing  you 
to  go  up  there." 

"  You  didn't  know  —  You  thought  it  was  the 
Captain  who  wrote  the  letters." 

Radding  shook  his  head.  "  No,  I  didn't.  I  can't 
excuse  myself  that  way." 

"  Then  why  — " 

"  I  wanted  to  get  you  out  of  the  bachelor's  rut  you 
were  falling  into  from  my  bad  example." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference,  Rad.  I'd 
have  gone  anyway.  I  was  taken  with  her  from  the 
first." 

"  Are  you  sure,"  Radding  began  carefully,  "  that 
there  was  no  mistake?  Are  you  sure  that  she  didn't 
feel  the  same  way  about  you?  " 

Whitman's  laugh  was  bitter.  "  I'm  certain,"  he 
said. 


no 


"  Did  she  tell  you  so?     Forgive  my  persistence." 
"She    didn't    have    to.     There    was  — another 

man." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  learned  it  accidentally." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  from  her  since?  " 

"  Early  in  the  year  I  had  a  letter  from  Luffkin  - 
the  real  Luffkin  —  corroborating  all  my  fears.  A 
week  ago,  I  had  one  from  her,  asking  me  not  to  pub- 
lish her  poem,  written  as  usual  under  the  Captain  s 
name.  The  poem  was  already  in  press  and  had  to 
go  through,  of  course.  I  wrote  a  line  telling  her  so, 
and  that's  the  end  of  it  all." 

"  Let  me  see  the  Captain's  letter  some  time,  if  yoi 
haven't  destroyed  it,"  Radding  suggested. 

Whitman  promptly  produced  it  from  his  pocket. 
"  I  saved  it,"  he  said,  "  to  keep  me  from  indulging  in 
any  more  foolish  hopes." 

Rad  pinched  on  his  glasses  and  read : 

"  Deep  Harbor,  N.  Y. 

"  Jan.  3,  191— 

"  Friend  Whitman : 

"  Concerning  suspicions  I  had  last  summer  of 
a  certain  party,  would  say  all  come  out  well  long 
since,  as  you  have  probably  heard.     My  girl 
her  secret  well,  and  Aunt  was  about  struck  dea( 
when  the  sergeant  walked  in  on  her  and  told  her 
that  he'd  got  a  commission.     Aunt's  head  was 
pretty  high  before.     Now,  I'm  thinking,  it  won't 
never  come  down  no  more.     With  a  lieutenant  in 


Ill 

the  family,  things  are  settling  back  like  they  used 
to  be. 

"  Hoping  this  finds  you  in  health. 
"  Respectfully, 

"  HENRY  B.  LUFFKIN." 

"  Was  the  sergeant  the  fellow  ?  "  asked  Radding, 
when  he  had  come  to  the  Captain's  carefully  lettered 
signature. 

Whitman  nodded,  his  face  set. 

Further  comment  was  impossible,  for  at  this  mo- 
ment the  train  pulled  into  Radding' s  station. 

"  Wait  for  me  at  your  office,"  he  said,  as  he  rose. 
"  I'll  be  there  about  five." 

"  It's  a  half  holiday,"  Whitman  reminded  him. 

"  Better  yet.  Make  it  two,  then.  We'll  do  some- 
thing together."  And  Radding  was  gone. 

It  was  a  quarter  after  two  by  the  office  clock. 
Whitman  was  about  to  close  his  desk  and  give  Rad- 
ding up,  when  the  janitor,  a  draggled  individual  with 
the  discouraged  slant  of  a  worn  out  broom,  appeared 
in  the  door  and  croaked :  "  Party  outside  asking  for 
a  Mr.  Radding.  There's  no  such  person  here,  is 
there?" 

"  He'll  be  here  any  minute,"  Whitman  replied. 
"  Show  the  visitor  in.  I'll  talk  to  him." 

The  janitor  ambled  down  the  long  hall  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  waiting  room.  Whitman  once  more  took 
up  the  proofs  of  his  novel,  which  he  had  laid  aside 
preparatory  to  leaving.  The  visitor's  coming  gave 


ii2  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

him  fresh  hope  that  Radding  would  finally  appear. 
Engrossed  in  his  work,  Whitman  had  forgotten  the 
invitation  he  had  sent  by  the  janitor,  when  he  was 
aroused  by  a  timid  knock  on  the  door.  It  was  fol- 
lowed, upon  his  giving  permission  to  enter,  by  the 
turning  of  the  knob,  the  soft  rustle  of  a  woman's 
garments,  and  an  exclamation  that  was  stifled  almost 
before  it  escaped. 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyes.  In  the  doorway 
stood  a  girl,  in  a  fur  hat  and  sable  furs  upon  which 
the  snow  had  frozen  in  glistening  crystals.  At  the 
sight  of  Whitman,  her  face  blanched  beneath  her 
veil. 

"  Nancy !  "  Whitman  breathed,  doubting  the  evi- 
dence of  his  eyes. 

It  was  some  moments  before  she  attempted  to 
speak.  Then  her  lips  moved  stiffly: 

"Who  are  you?"  she  said.  "Why  are  you 
here?" 

Whitman  got  to  his  feet.  He  did  not  move 
toward  her,  but  steadying  himself  by  a  hand  that 
found  his  desk,  he  spoke,  the  length  of  the  room 
between  them : 

"  I'm  the  Editor  of  Better  Every  Week,  Nancy." 

"  You  deceived  me,  then.     If  I'd  known  — " 

The  young  man  finished  the  sentence  for  her,  bit- 
terly : 

"You  mean  if  you'd  known  that,  you  wouldn't 
have  come  ?  " 

"  No,  I  would  not  have  come." 

"Are  you  sorry,  Nancy,  to  find  me  here?  " 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  113 

"  I'm  sorry  that  the  old  man  in  whom  you  let  me 
believe  is  not  a  reality.  I  liked  to  think  that  I  had 
a  friend." 

"  You  surely  know  that  I  am  your  friend,  Nancy ; 
a  thousand  fold  more  sincerely  your  friend  than  he 
could  ever  have  been  —  had  he  existed.  I  was  your 
friend  from  the  beginning.  I  am  your  friend  now." 

To  these  protestations  she  made  no  answer. 

"If  Mr.  Radding  is  not  here,"  she  said  at  last, 
with  an  effort  to  control  her  voice,  "  I  think  that  I 
must  go." 

The  dignity  inherited  from  a  long  line  of  gentle- 
women showed  in  the  slight  inclination  of  her  head 
in  his  direction. 

"  He'll  be  here,"  Whitman  promised,  recklessly, 
feeling  anything  was  more  bearable  than  her  going. 
"  What  did  you  want  of  him,  Nancy?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  buy  back  some  heirlooms  I  sold 
him  when  I  was  in  trouble.  Bob  won't  hear  of 
anything  else,  now  that  our  necessity  is  over." 

"  Is  Bob  —  Sergeant  Wilson?  " 

"  He  was ;  but  the  War  Department  has  allowed 
him  to  change  his  name." 

"  Is  he  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  came  to  get  measured  for  some  new 
uniforms,  and  I  came  with  him.  He's  to  call  here 
for  me  and  take  me  back  to  the  hotel." 

"  Nancy,"  Whitman  pleaded,  looking  down  at  her 
averted  eyes,  "  tell  me,  are  you  happy  ?  I  can  bear 
anything  if  you  are." 

"  I  have  everything  to  make  me  happy,"  Nancy 


ii4  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

evaded  him.  "Aunt  Roxana  is  radiant."  She 
cmiled  faintly.  "  She  is  going  to  give  a  ball  to  the 
whole  regiment.  She  is  so  happy  she  has  even  for- 
given me  about  the  poem." 

"The  poem?" 

"  The  one  you  bought." 

"  What  was  there  to  forgive?  " 

"It  was  her  heart's  secret.  She  had  written  it 
when  she  was  a  girl  like  me.  I  did  not  know  that, 
of  course,  when  I  sent  it  to  you.  I  found  it  in  a 
secret  drawer.  I  thought  some  one  long  dead  had 
written  it." 

It  was  Whitman's  turn  to  be  silent.  When  he 
spoke  his  voice  trembled.  "You  can't  realize, 
Nancy,  what  it  means  to  me  to  learn  that  those 
verses  were  not  yours.  I  seem  to  have  lost  my  last 
illusion." 

"  You  mean  it  was  wicked  to  sell  them?  That's 
what  Aunt  said  until  she  learned  what  I  wanted  to 
do  with  the  money." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean  any  such  thing,"  Whit- 
man protested,  indignantly.  "  I  mean  that  I  loved 
to  think  that  it  was  your  heart  that  waited  there 
*  Like  violets  under  snow.' ' 

Nancy  shook  her  head.  "I  didn't  write  them, 
but  I  loved  them.  They  taught  me  something  that 
has  helped  me  to  go  on." 

"  What  did  they  teach  you,  Nancy?  " 
"They  taught  me  that  love  is  always  answered 
by  love,  at  last.     Aunt  Roxana  never  had  a  lover, 
but  Bob  came,  and  filled  her  heart.     Perhaps,"  the 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  115 

sweet  voice  quavered,  "  it  will  be  Bob's  son  who  will 
fill  mine." 

Whitman's  voice  was  so  tense  it  sounded  hard. 

"  Nancy,"  he  said  sternly,  "did  you  marry  with- 
out loving?  " 

"  Marry !  "  A  deep  flush  swept  the  pale  cheeks, 
to  the  brim  of  the  little  fur  hat.  "  I  am  not  mar- 
ried." 

"Not  yet?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  But  you  have  a  lover?  " 

The  ghost  of  the  old  Nancy  flickered  in  her  un- 
certain smile.  "  I'm  not  sure,"  she  breathed. 

"  Please  don't  tease  me,  Nancy."  A  hot  hand 
locked  over  hers.  "  Once  for  all,  tell  me  who  it  was 
that  came  to  you  in  the  bower,  that  you  kissed,  that 
you  let  clasp  you  in  his  arms." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Whitman,"  she  laughed  on  a  long 
sobbing  breath,  while  one  little  hand  stole  contritely 
into  his.  "  Didn't  you  know?  That  was  Bob,  my 
brother." 

"Your  brother!" 

Without  waiting  for  another  word;  without  ask- 
ing where  he  stood  in  her  affections,  Whitman  gath- 
ered the  slight  figure,  muffled  in  furs,  tight  within  his 
arms.  He  kissed  the  beautiful  eyes  until  they 
laughed  up  at  him  once  more.  He  kissed  the  cheeks 
until  they  bloomed.  He  kissed  the  mouth  until  the 
Cupid's  bow  arched  in  its  old,  playful  smile. 

"  Why,  Caleb,"  she  gasped  between  his  kisses, 
"  didn't  you  really  know  ?  " 


ii6  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  Know !  Did  you  suppose  if  I  had  known  I 
should  have  left  Deep  Harbor  without  one  word, 
after  that  last  night  together?  What  did  you  think 
of  me,  Nancy?  What  could  you  have  thought  of 

me?"' 

The  dark  head  drooped  against  his  shoulder,  as 
glad  to  be  at  rest.  "  At  first  I  thought  all  that  Aunt 
had  said  of  men  was  true.  Then  I  found  the  moss 
rose  I  had  given  you,  in  the  bower.  I  knew  you 
must  have  seen  me  meet  Bob,  and  I  thought  you 
could  not  have  understood.  And  so,  the  moment  the 
secret  was  out  and  Bob  had  his  commission,  I  asked 
Captain  Luffkin  to  write  you  —  and  still  you  did  not 
come.  Didn't  you  get  the  letter  ?  " 

"  Get  the  letter !  "  roared  Whitman.  "Of  course 
I  got  the  letter.  It  destroyed  the  last  spark  of  hope 
within  me.  The  blundering  old  walrus !  He  never 
once  mentioned  your  relationship  to  the  sergeant. 
If  he  steered  a  boat  with  no  more  skill  than  he 
writes  letters,  he'd  be  aground  in  five  minutes." 

Nancy  laughed  softly.  "  It's  all  over  now,"  she 
sighed  contentedly.  "  My  troubles  and  yours  have 
vanished,  as  well  as  Bob's." 

"  Did  Bob  have  such  heavy  troubles,  dear?  " 
"Yes;  I  forgot  you  didn't  know.     They  explain 
everything.     You  see,  Bob  had  been  in  the  Academy 
West   Point,  you  know  —  but  something  hap- 
pened, and  they  —  dismissed  him." 

"  That  was  hard,  wasn't  it,  Sweetheart  ?  " 
"  Aunt  Roxana  wrote  him  a  terrible  letter,  and 
told  him  that  he  had  disgraced  his  forefathers ;  that 
he  must  never  enter  our  gate  again." 


MY  LADY  VALENTINE  117 

"  Poor  chap!  Pretty  rough  on  him,  wasn't  it?  " 
"  I  used  to  think  so,  but  it  made  a  man  of  him. 
He  enlisted  in  the  ranks  under  the  name  of  Wilson, 
and  won  his  commission  the  very  year  his  class  grad- 
uated. In  all  that  time  Aunt  Roxana  had  not  heard 
one  word  of  his  whereabouts.  I  alone  knew  the 
secret.  Oh!  If  you  had  seen  her  the  day  when 
Bob  threw  open  the  garden  gate  and  strode  up  the 
walk  with  his  head  as  high  as  hers,  the  straps  on  his 
shoulders." 

"  She  was  pleased,  was  she,  darling?  " 
"  Pleased !  "  Nancy  ejaculated,  smiling.     "  She's 
never  talked  of  anything  else  since.     She's  never 
looked  at  another  person.     And  to  think,"  she  sighed 
reminiscently,  "  how  near  he  came  to  failing.     If  it 
hadn't  been  for  your  buying  my  poem  and  your  tell- 
ing Mr.  Radding,  the  collector,  about  my  things, 
Bob  might  never  have  got  his  commission." 
"  What  had  that  to  do  with  it,  my  own?  " 
"  Ah,  you  don't  know.     There  was  an  old  debt 
from  Academy  days  that  had  to  be  paid.     A  cruel 
creature  named  Goldstein  found  out  that  Bob  was 
in  the  ranks,  and  he  threatened  to  tell  the  command- 
ing officer  the  whole  story,  unless  he  was  paid.     It 
was  life  or  death  with  us  at  that  crucial  time,  to  get 
the  money.     Bob  raised  all  that  he  could  — " 
"  Then  my  little  general  took  a  hand." 
"  What  sweet  things  you  always  say."     Her  cheek 
caressed  his  sleeve.     "  I  missed  you  so  when  you 
went  away.     It  was  winter  in  the  garden  and  winter 
in  my  heart." 


1 18  MY  LADY  VALENTINE 

"  It's  spring  now,  beloved,  forever  and  forever." 

A  discreet  knock  on  the  wall  of  the  corridor,  well 
outside  the  open  door,  caused  Nancy  to  retreat  from 
Whitman's  arms  and  hurriedly  put  her  hat  to  rights. 

"  Yes  ?  "  shouted  Whitman  fiercely,  peering  out 
to  find  the  intruder. 

The  janitor  coughed  and  smiled  apologetically, 
"  Sorry  to  interrupt  you,  Mr.  Whitman,  but  this 
note  just  came  for  you." 

Whitman  opened  it,  while  his  arm  again  drew 
Nancy  close. 

"DearCaley:"  (He  read) 

"  I  hope  the  '  Valentine '  I  ventured  to  send 
met  with  your  approval.  I'm  afraid  the  dinner 
is  on  me,  after  all.  I  have  ordered  covers  laid  for 
four  at  Delmonico's  at  eight.  I  insist  that  the 
sergeant  come,  to  keep  me  company. 

"  *  If  her  name  is  Mary,  call  her  Mary;  if  she 
was  christened  Susan,  call  her  Susan.' 

"  As  ever, 

"  RAD." 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  asked  Nancy,  reading  the 
note  from  the  shelter  of  her  lover's  arm. 

"  He'll  tell  you  at  dinner,  Rose  of  the  World,  in 
his  own  whimsical  way." 

THE  END 


A     000128811     7 


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